


The Return

by favabean05, frek



Series: Miracle [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/favabean05/pseuds/favabean05, https://archiveofourown.org/users/frek/pseuds/frek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been several months since The Fall. John is a wreck and Sherlock very alone. When John gets swept up in a case he never wanted to take, he somehow finds himself tangled up in Moriarty's web. It'll take a miracle to get him out.</p><p>(Hints at SH/JW in this first fic, but nothing overt until the second in this series.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Paragraph RP edited into fic. Favabean05 wrote John. Frek wrote Sherlock. All other characters were written by both of us.

Sherlock Holmes was dead. At least to the majority of the population. There were exactly two people who knew otherwise, but the one who mattered most to Sherlock did not. That person was his best friend, his only friend, his flatmate, John Watson. Well, technically his ex-flatmate. Sherlock hadn't been back to their flat since his death, his room left empty except of all the possessions he had left behind. He knew John hadn't bothered to find someone new, hadn't bothered to remove any of his possessions. He knew John was in mourning.

It was obvious to Sherlock's trained eyes. He saw it in the way John would move about the flat, his eyes falling on his old chair, the sofa, and the various experiments left half completed across the kitchen table. In the way John would come up to the cemetery every week, sometimes more, to visit his grave, whispering everything he never said when Sherlock was alive to the cold stone marker.

Sherlock was in the cemetery then, his mobile held in his hand, the screen lit with a text he had received from John some thirty minutes before detailing his plans. He did it often, sending Sherlock texts about his life, sentiments and other trivialities. Sherlock wondered why he continued to text him, but he couldn't say he wasn't glad John did. It helped lessen the gap he felt between them. Lessened the hurt on his part.

John slowly trekked the familiar but hated path to the shiny black headstone. His limp had returned, more obvious now, and the uneven grassy land provided more resistance than John liked. Things were hard enough. He was already in so much pain, the stab in each step he took felt like the twist of a knife.

He reached the plot and eased himself down to the earth, noting how grass was beginning to poke through the tilled dirt. Time passed, the earth turned, life went on. John sighed slowly. Except his. He hadn't figured out how to go on. He didn't know if he could. 

"Hello," John said quietly. "Me again. I know I was just here a few days ago, I just... needed to come back."

His voice caught in his throat and he looked down at his knees, pulling his mobile from his pocket. Texting was always easier, it seemed. He slowly typed out his message with shaky fingers.

_I miss you, Sherlock._

Sherlock watched John struggle with the walk to the grave, his eyes catching the grimace on his face, the stiffness in his knee. He was in pain, but he didn't need to be. Sherlock had the urge to go to him, take his hand and run off on some case, make him forget the pain again, remember that he didn't need to hurt. He couldn't, though. He had work to do, a life to take, one to save. Keeping an eye on John was the only luxury he allowed himself.

From his hiding spot, a large tree near the headstone, he could hear John's voice as he spoke to him. He sounded tired, weak, nothing like the John he remembered. There was silence for a few moments before Sherlock's mobile buzzed in his hand. He glanced down to find a text from John. _I miss you, too_ , he thought to himself.

John thought he heard something not soon after he hit 'send'. If he didn't know it was completely impossible, he would have sworn he heard a mobile vibrate. He looked up, scanning the area around him idly. Even though he knew he would find nothing around him, he felt he _had_ to anyway. 

"I'm going bloody crazy," John said aloud and sighed, shifting his weight to lean his back against the cold headstone.

He'd done this almost every time he visited. John would sit for ages, leaning against his best friend's gravestone, and just simply play catch up. He'd tell the crushingly empty space around him all the mundane details of how everyone was, what case Lestrade wanted John involved in (but he _just can't_ right now...), and general updates in his now lonely life. 

"Molly's birthday was last week, Sherlock. I don't know if you even knew, but there was a get-together. It felt off without you there showing off," John couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "Mrs. Hudson misses you something awful. I hear her crying now and then. She hears me too..."

John closed his eyes against the sting of tears, resting his head back against the solid surface. 

"Damn it. Damn it, Sherlock, why did you do this?" he whispered, voice cracking.

Sherlock's fingers gripped his mobile tightly, he could see his knuckles turning white under the stress. He knew a lot of what John was talking about, thanks to the network he had put in place, the people, cameras, and other methods of keeping tabs on his friend. But it felt somehow different coming from John's lips. An empty feeling would fill his chest when John spoke of the things that he was missing. Sherlock knew it was about more than the event. Despite how much he saw and knew, he was still missing out on a vital part John's life.

Sherlock turned to his mobile again, pulling up a text screen. _I seem to have missed your birthday, my apologies and best wishes_. He pressed the send button and slid the mobile back into his pocket, his ears trained once more on John.

John sniffed lightly, quickly wiping under his right eye. "There's this case Greg wants me to help with. I keep telling him I'm not you, that I would be no good to him. Besides, the last thing I want to do is be around Anderson and Donovan. Sarah's been around more. Just... company, you know. Your skull only goes so far..."

John didn't know how long he sat there, talking out loud to the silent graveyard. The temperature had dropped a touch, it was probably early evening by now. John sighed slowly and pulled himself up to his feet. He dusted himself off, turned back to face Sherlock's engraved name and felt a pang in his stomach. 

"I'm still waiting on that miracle," John bit his lip and sighed. "I'll... I'll wait as long as I need to. Goodbye Sherlock..."

He laid his hand on the gravestone for a moment before turning carefully and limped away, masking his winces of pain.

Sherlock peered around the tree, watching John retreat down the path, limping uncomfortably the whole way. His familiar form grew smaller and smaller until Sherlock knew he was out of earshot.

"Don't stop waiting, John. I'll be there for you soon."

Sherlock pulled up his collar and turned the opposite direction, wrapping his coat tightly around his body. John had spent the better part of the afternoon talking to him, sharing with him his life, his thoughts, and his feelings. He told him more in death than he had ever told him in life. Sherlock enjoyed his unfiltered honesty in these moments. He wondered, though, if that would be gone when he finally could tell John the truth of his death.

Sherlock pulled his mobile out while he walked across the cemetery, still open to the last person he texted. He quickly typed out a new message, _Need to have Lestrade convince John he needs him for his medical expertise. John thinks Lestrade needs someone like me_.

\- - -

Two days passed after John's last visit to Sherlock's grave. John padded about the flat, making himself tea and sitting in _his_ chair watching crap telly. This kind of monotony would have suffocated him in his life before Sherlock. Now, it was the only thing that sustained him. As he eased himself down into the chair, he heard his mobile ringing in his pocket. He saw the name on the screen, gave a soft sigh, then answered.

"Hello, Greg."

"John. How are you holding up?"

John pursed his lips. He hated that phrase. "I'm managing. And you?" 

"Same," Greg paused, taking a breath. "Listen, I need to know if you're able to help with this case..."

John let out a long sigh, closing his eyes. "Greg, I've told you. I'd be no damn good to you. I'm not Sh... I'm not him."

"I know you're not, John. I'm not asking for him. I'm asking for you."

"God," John whispered, pinching the bridge of his nose. There was a part of him - a small, minuscule part of him - that allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. "What, um... what are some of the details?"

"Man was found in a room locked from the inside, no visible signs of forced entry through the only window. Suicide has been ruled out, but we need another set of eyes, take a look at the body, the scene. Maybe you'll catch something we missed."

John was silent while his thoughts raced. He'd be getting out of the flat, feeling useful again. However he'd be going back to the life he had, without Sherlock. Maybe this was something he needed. Maybe this could be the catalyst for his moving on. That familiar pull was coming back, that feeling that had made John immediately reply "oh, God, yes" the first time Sherlock asked him to a scene.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "All right... all right. I'll... I'll give it a go. What's, um, the address?"

"Newlands Flats at Mortimer and Berners Streets. Not very far from you. I'll be there in twenty minutes if you want to meet me there."

"A-All right. I'll be there. Um, is... are... who's working it?"

"The usual, but they're not there. They're back at The Yard doing follow up."

John nodded, put at ease a bit. "Good. Um, I'm heading out now. S-See you soon..."

He hung up the mobile and sighed slowly. Crime scene. He was going to his first crime scene in months. A small thrill ran through him, but it faded as quickly as it came when he reminded himself that he was going alone. John reached for his aluminum cane, cursing it under his breath, and pushed himself up to his feet. He made his way to the front door and paused when his eyes fell on a dark blue cashmere scarf hanging on a coat hook beside it on the wall. Sherlock's scarf. His most worn one. Without giving time to question even himself, John grabbed it and quickly slipped it around his neck. He stepped out of the flat and hailed a cab.

Sherlock sat in the front window of Mortimer's, just below the crime scene Lestrade was currently working on. He was holding a newspaper open before him as he kept watch through the window. He knew John was going to visit the crime scene soon and was expecting him any minute. It had been a couple days since he had prodded Molly to help push John to take the job, knowing that John needed the work and more than anything, an excuse to get out of the flat other than to visit his grave.

Sherlock glanced at his mobile, verifying the time once more before glancing back out the window. He was rewarded with a glimpse of John climbing out of a taxi, handing the driver a few notes before sending him off. He had his cane still, the limp apparent as he stepped onto the sidewalk, his eyes searching for Lestrade. Sherlock was surprised, though, to find something else with, well on, John. He could clearly make out the blue of his own scarf wrapped around John's neck. Curious, that. John didn't wear scarves. Sherlock tried to decide on the meaning. Obviously sentimental, of course. But something else, he was sure. More data was needed to come to a conclusion, Sherlock decided.

John looked up to see Greg waiting for him at the front door to the building as he slowly made his way up to him. John saw Greg's eyebrows furrow a touch, and he knew Greg had just noticed the scarf around his neck. 

"Greg," John nodded.

"John," Greg replied, tilting his head to the right. "Is that...?"

"Yes," John replied immediately, walking past Greg and into the building, quickly making his way to the flat the police were gathered around. "So where's this mystery body you need me to look at?"

Lestrade nodded toward the back of the flat, the bedroom, the door just ajar. "He was found in his bed."

Greg followed behind John into the room, his eyes falling on the now familiar crime scene. The man was in his bed, just like he had said, but he hadn't mentioned the rest. His arms and legs were tied to the posters of his bed frame, he was nude, the only thing covering his body, a tactfully placed pillow. Aside from the ropes binding his limbs, there was no sign of outward trauma on the body and in the room, no signs of forced entry.

John's eyes widened as he took in the sight of the body. He looked back over his shoulder at Greg with a raised eyebrow, as if to say "are you serious?", then moved closer to the body. He sighed slowly, eyeing the body up and down, trying hard to see past the ordinary. 

He went to work, leaning in close to and wrinkling his nose as he did so. "Smell alcohol..."

John slowly slid his eyes up the dead man's arm to his wrist, furrowing his brows. "There's, um... there's not enough bruising right at the wrists. If he'd..." John cleared his throat, "shagged when he was tied, there would be more burn and bruising there. I'd imagine anyway. He was probably killed somewhere else then the murderer staged this scene..."

Greg nodded, watching John look over the body, his trained eyes catching the small details of the human body that he never caught. "Good to know," he said crossing his arms as John continued to pick out details. "Do you see anything that can tell us cause of death? Our preliminary look didn't provide us with much insight."

John sighed and reached for a pair of gloves. "May I?"

At Greg's nod, John pulled the latex gloves on and began carefully examining the body even closer. He pulled down the lower lip, lifted the eyelids, searching for any sort of signal that something had gone amiss.

"No discoloration, no signs of asphyxiation. Molly may be able to tell you more, but I..." he paused when he noticed a slight pink tinge of the skin at the victim's navel. John leaned down to more closely examine it. He furrowed his brow in confusion, not at what it was but why it would be there. 

"He's been injected with something," John observed. "See here, look... he had a reaction to whatever it was. I saw this all the time in Afghanistan with vaccine shots."

"Anderson didn't find anything to suggest that," Greg said, leaning down on the other side of the body.

"Because Anderson's an idiot," John spat, not really realizing it. "It's there. Somewhere."

Greg gave a non-committal nod, regardless of his opinion he knew he was supposed to be diplomatic. Anderson made that difficult sometimes. 

He walked across the room, stopping to look out the window. His gaze settled on the sidewalk across the street, to a light haired man leaning casually against a wall, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. "The body I had called you about last week was found in a similar set of circumstances. I can get you the medical report on that victim when we're done here if you'd like to look."

John sighed slowly. "Yeah, all right. I'll take a look."

He walked over to stand beside Greg, looking out the window himself. He saw the man leaning against the wall and felt something _odd_ in the back of his mind. He felt the small hairs on the back of his neck prickle, but soon shook it off as Greg turned to face him.

"Um... s-so serial killer? You think?"

Greg nodded, "It's likely. All the circumstances are similar and in some points identical. No visible signs of entry, tied limbs... The last body, though, we were able to tell the cause of death easily. He was suffocated."

Greg was still watching the man across the street closely. He was certain he'd seen him before, but he couldn't place it. The feeling it gave nagged at him, leaving him feeling unsettled.

"So, a series of murders, each with its own cause of death," John sighed softly, still glancing over at the man outside. "Sounds... interesting, I'll admit." John then turned to Lestrade. "Send the files to the flat?"

Greg nodded, "I can do that." He sent one more glance at the man outside, before turning back to the body. He knew the team outside the room were waiting for them to finish so they could do their job. "Is there anything else you need before I have this cleared out?"

"No," John replied, shaking his head. "No, I think that's it. Um... thank you, Greg. It's... nice getting out of the flat." 

John slowly made his way out of the flat and out onto the street. He stumbled as his weakened leg hit an uneven patch of concrete in front of Mortimer's, and he dropped his cane on the ground. Groaning, he carefully leaned down to pick it up. As he righted himself, his eyes fell upon a figure in the cafe that made his eyes widen and adrenaline run through him. A tall man with curly black hair. He looked just like.... just like...

Sherlock was in the process of standing up from his table when John walked out of the building. He was folding the paper under his arm when he glanced up, watching John bend down to pick up his cane. He felt his pulse race as John stopped suddenly, his eyes widening with recognition as they fell on him. Sherlock turned quickly from the window, ducking his head as he started to move through the cafe, toward the back, suddenly intent on finding another way out of the building. He couldn't let John see him, not yet. It was too dangerous.

"Sher..." John gasped, and he was off like a shot, running into the cafe. "Sherlock?"

Patrons looked up from their food as John hobbled past them, trying to get to the retreating back of what could only be described as a hallucination. The apparition ran faster than John's leg would allow and John nearly hit the floor as it passed through a distant door in the back.

"No... Sherlock..."

Ignoring the pointed stares from those in the cafe, John stumbled back out to the street, his chest heavy. There was no way... there was no _way_... John felt sick, his heart was pounding. Not another dream, not another hallucination. He couldn't handle another bout of them. With one last look into the cafe, John slowly limped away, tears stinging his eyes.

Sherlock stopped moving once he was through the kitchen exit, safely hidden in the alley behind the restaurant. He leaned against the wall, trying to control his breathing, willing his heart to stop racing. John had seen him, recognized him. His only hope was that John had thought it was his imagination, his grief working overtime. The thought brought a lump to Sherlock's throat. He hated what he was doing to John despite knowing it was the best solution. Hearing the pain and hope in John's voice was enough to make Sherlock want to stop the charade altogether. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep breath and swallowed the lump. He didn't have time to dwell on the inconvenient feelings John brought up in him, he had to track down Moriarty's network and save his best friend.

Across the street, the light-haired man witnessed every second of John's supposed encounter. He kept his eyes trained on the doctor though his expression never changed. As he watched John head back down the street, he slowly peeled himself from the brick wall and followed him all the way.

\- - -

Moran sat in the window of his flat after getting back from Mortimer Street. He had left quickly when he knew his target was going to be coming home, ready to watch and wait. His flat was a cramped space leased specifically for it's location and little else. From the window he could clearly see into the window of John Watson's flat on Baker Street and the surrounding area. He was able to keep track of the comings and goings of Sherlock's best friend and anyone else that may involve themselves in his life. For the most part, though, the comings and goings were few and far between. His target preferred to keep himself holed up in his flat aside from his occasional jobs with the police and more often, his visits to the cemetery where Holmes was said to be buried.

Moran didn't believe for a minute that Sherlock Holmes was actually dead. Quite unlike his boss, who he knew without a shadow of a doubt had taken his own life. Unfortunately, he didn't have any proof that what he knew was the truth. Everything that he was able to procure regarding his suicide had supported what he had known to happen that day. Still, his suspicion was there, and if Holmes so much as showed one curl of his hair before him, he would follow his orders. Sherlock Holmes would lose his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

John quickly hailed a cab half a block from Mortimer's, his heart still pounding hard in his chest. He slipped into the cab, stumbled over his address, and desperately tried to calm his breathing as the cab pulled away. Not again. He couldn't go through this again. John blinked back the sudden, hot tears that sprung up, clenching his fists tight. 

The first two months after Sherlock had jumped, John would keep seeing him. Sherlock would be sitting in his chair. He would be rummaging about the kitchen, working on his experiments. He would be walking down the street opposite John, and each time he'd turn to look back, he had vanished. Every day, John saw Sherlock back in his life and every night the reality would come crashing down around him like that bright afternoon at Bart's. 

Seeing Sherlock in the restaurant today, after six blissful weeks of being rid of those apparitions, sent John reeling. He gave a fleeting thought of calling Ella, but shook the thought from his head. He didn't want to be back in her office. In that chair. John thought to what could have triggered him. Was it that he was on his first case since Sherlock had died? 

"God, that... that would make sense," John whispered under his breath, earning a look from the cabbie in the rear view mirror. 

He gasped softly and slowly reached up to run his fingertips along the soft cashmere wrapped around his neck. John let out a shaky breath and pulled out his mobile, allowing a few tears to slide down his cheeks and soak into the fabric.

_I just saw you._

_I swear, it was you._

_Was it you?_

_I'm going mad, aren't I?_

\- - -

Sherlock was walking away from the cafe, his thoughts preoccupied, as they often were these days, on John. The look on John's face when he had recognized him had felt like a knife to the chest. A hard, sharp pain that hurt as much as any physical wound. He could see the pain and desperation in his eyes, the glimmer of hope that faded when he had stumbled in the cafe. Sherlock had caught one last glance at John before he disappeared through the door, he couldn't help himself. John's face lingered before him even now as he walked briskly down the street. 

Sherlock was so lost in his own thoughts and memories that he almost didn't register the vibration of his mobile in his pocket. He pulled out the mobile and saw the name on his screen. _John_. He felt that knife twist in his chest as he read the texts John had sent. He had to practically restrain himself from responding. The text was at the tip of his fingers, typed out, just waiting to be sent.

_You're not mad, John._

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, feeling it hitch in his chest. He was being ridiculous. There was no room for sentiment in this situation. He dropped his mobile in his pocket, fingers brushing the screen as he did. He had work to do, he knew the location of the man on Lestrade. It was time to pay him a visit.

\- - -

John stuffed his mobile into his coat pocket, quickly wiping his face of tears. He took a deep, centering breath as the cab pulled up to Baker Street. John paid the fare, mumbled his gratitude and exited, relying heavily on his cane as he limped back into his flat. He stumbled slightly through the doorway and the sound pulled Mrs. Hudson out into the main hallway. She sighed sadly when she saw Sherlock's scarf around his neck. When she next noticed the wetness glisten under John's slightly reddened eyes, she just walked up to him and wrapped her arms around him. 

"Go on upstairs, dear," she whispered kindly. "I'll bring you a cuppa."

John allowed himself to sink against the older woman just a bit, grateful for the warm contact. "I thought you weren't my housekeeper," he replied back quietly, pulling a soft smile.

Mrs. Hudson smiled slightly back. "Today, I am. Go on now."

John sniffed and kissed her cheek before turning and working his way up to his sitting room. He shucked his coat off, tossing it across the back of his arm chair. He then laid down on the long sofa, his eyes up on the yellow smile that seemed to taunt him now. John sighed and slid his eyes closed, unaware that his mobile phone across the room had just buzzed with a text.

\- - -

Sherlock climbed into a taxi several blocks down from the cafe, giving an address to the driver as he did. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket as he prepped himself for the confrontation that was about to happen, never bothering to look at the screen. He had been following this man for the better part of two months, attempting to pin him down to a place. He was slick, though, and moved often, but was never far from Lestrade. This made things complicated. Because, even though Lestrade wasn't actively looking for Sherlock like John, he was far more observant and more likely to recognize him in a crowd.

As dusk crept up on London, the taxi stopped about a block from where Sherlock knew the man was staying. He slipped the mobile once more into his pocket and paid the driver before stepping out of the taxi. His eyes fell on the nondescript building that he knew the sniper was staying. It was across the street and two doors down from Lestrade's own home. He knew for a fact that Lestrade was still at work, his mind focused on the case John was helping him with. He hadn't seen this sniper while Lestrade was out today, not unusual. He seemed to leave his post about once a week, sometimes more. Moriarty should have been more careful when choosing this one.

Sherlock took a deep breath and started toward the house, quickly covering the distance. The building was dark except for one room, an upstairs bedroom from what he could see. He recognized the shadow of the sniper pacing the room, falling across the curtained window. The rest of the house sat empty.

Sherlock could feel his heart race with adrenaline as he stepped into the house, the front door left unlocked. _Confident. Unafraid_. He didn't believe anyone would enter his house, attempt to do so. Sherlock could hear the man pacing in his room as he moved through the house. He saw a gun lying on the kitchen counter and picked it up, checking the magazine before carrying it with him. As he reached the top of the stairs, the pacing stopped. Sherlock paused, listening, his eyes taking in the details of the dark hall, falling on the sliver of light that spilled into the darkness through the door left ajar.

When he was certain the man wasn't moving out of the room, Sherlock walked the last few steps to the room, looking through the crack to see the man stopped and staring intently out the window. Lestrade was home, the hunter had seen his quarry.

Sherlock covered the last few steps across the room silently, watching every breath the sniper took as he stopped behind him. He pressed the gun to the back of the sniper's head. "So much as move a muscle and it will be the last thing you do."

The sniper froze, his breathing quick. "We knew you weren't dead."

"Obviously not, otherwise you would have taken out your man." Sherlock held the gun firm, his eyes trained on the sniper for any small movement.

"We knew you weren't dead," he repeated, his voice more firm. "But we were supposed to shoot your... friends... only if _they_ knew. If you went to them or if one of them saw you."

"Is that a fact? I thought the rules were that I was to die."

"And when Moriarty ate his own gun, plans changed," the sniper spat.

Sherlock felt like he was on the edge of something, though he wasn't sure what. "And yet, you're still here. Why didn't you just leave. Moriarty is gone. There's nothing keeping you here."

"That isn't how he works. When you're in, you're in for life. Every leader has a second in command..."

Sherlock felt his pulse quicken at those words. He had deduced there was someone else calling the shots with Moriarty gone, but he had no proof. Until now. "It's clearly not you. You've been too lax to be so important to Moriarty."

The sniper scoffed. "I died the day I signed on with him. Not just the leaders have seconds in command. Everyone does. You kill one of us, three more will take our place. Keep that in mind, Mr. Holmes."

"I find it hard to believe there are quite so many of you out there." Sherlock pressed the conversation forward, hoping to get more from him.

"Believe it," the sniper replied. "Moriarty's web stretches farther than you can imagine. Doubt will be your downfall."

In an instant, the sniper brought his arm up swiftly, knocking Sherlock's arm and ducking his head.

Sherlock recognized the sniper's movements the second he started. He gripped the gun tighter as the sniper knocked his hand from his body, thankfully never losing that grip as his arm went to the side. Sherlock corrected himself quickly, but the damage was done. The sniper was up, facing him now, another weapon drawn.

"Interesting technique," Sherlock commented, his eyes narrowed at the man, watching for any telltale movements.

"We're not all idiots," the sniper smirked. "You won't win, Sherlock. You will die. For real this time."

"Not all of you, I'm sure. But you most certainly are." Sherlock knew he wasn't going to get anything more from this man. He had a decision to make, not particularly difficult, considering. He just wasn't sure of the implications. He took a breath, his decision made. "After you," he said, squeezing the trigger, leaving the sniper sprawled on the floor, his own blood already beginning to pool around his body.

Sherlock dropped the gun on the floor, thankful that he was wearing gloves. He bent over and found the mobile in the sniper's pocket. He slid it into his own pocket and turned out of the room, quickly making his way out of the house, through the back, disappearing into the darkness. The gunshot was loud, obvious, and with Lestrade across the street, he knew it wouldn't be long before someone came to investigate.

\- - -

John had fallen into a fitful sleep soon after finishing his tea. 

_He felt the cool breeze on his face as he stood frozen in the lot in front of St. Bartholomew's, mobile pressed to his ear. His heart pounded in his throat as he saw Sherlock standing on the roof edge, his coat billowing about him like a cape._

_'This is my note...'_

_'No, Sherlock, don't...' John pleaded._

_'Good-bye, John.'_

_Sherlock spread his arms, then leaned forward._

_'SHERLOCK!'_

_John sprinted forward toward the sidewalk as Sherlock seemed to float like a feather toward the concrete. He could catch him. John could save him. He ran faster than he'd ever run in his life, but the sidewalk only inched closer. So close... he was almost there..._

_He reached the pavement and cried out in horror as Sherlock's body slammed into the ground before his eyes. The sickening sound of the impact sent John to his knees, crumpling to the ground beside the lifeless body of his best friend._

John sat bolt upright on the couch, panting hard.

"Sherlock... Sherlock, no..."

As he worked to control his breathing, the ringing of his mobile phone finally broke through the fog in his brain. He groaned softly and pulled himself off the couch, limping to the chair his coat was slung over. He grabbed his mobile, checked the name, then sighed.

"Greg?" John answered, working hard to keep his voice steady.

"John," Greg greeted him, hearing the rasp in his voice. He could tell he had just woken John up. "Hey, sorry to wake you. I just thought you might be interested in something that just fell into my lap."

"You... you didn't. It's all right," John sighed softly. "What's happened, Greg?"

"Another murder. Not the same killer, though. Something different." Greg shook his head, looking up at the house he'd driven past, walked past every day for the past several years. "In my own neighborhood."

John's eyes widened. "Oh God. You're... you're okay, right?"

"Oh yeah, fine," Greg said, lightly, hiding the fact that no, in fact he wasn't quite as fine as he led on. There was something about this scene, about this man that somehow scared him more than he could describe. "Most interesting thing that's happened here in years, if you think about it."

"Oh... well, good," John sighed, aware of how nervous he'd been that yet another close friend in his life may have been in danger. "I'm not far. Um, d'you want me to come down and take a look?"

"Why else would I be calling you?" Greg said, a smile in his voice. "How soon can you be here?"

John couldn't help the soft smile that spread across his face. "I'll catch a cab right now. Be there in ten."

They exchanged goodbyes and John ended the call, quickly slipping it into his trousers' pocket. He grabbed his coat, slipped it on, and hesitated a second before carefully pulling Sherlock's scarf from his neck. If that was what triggered his hallucination back at the cafe, John felt it best that it stay there at the flat. 

He grabbed his cane, trekked down the stairs, called out to Mrs. Hudson that he was going out, then reached the sidewalk. He hailed a cab, and as he slipped inside, he pulled his mobile from his pocket. He clicked away, sending another text to the familiar, unused number.

_Another crime scene. Two in one day. Just like old times._

John pressed 'send' with a soft smile. Not soon after, John saw that he had an unread message in his inbox. He must have received it when he was asleep in the flat. John clicked 'open' and he felt his entire body go cold.

_From: Sherlock_

"No..." John whispered, clicking his mobile with shaky fingers. He opened the message and John cried out, gripping the mobile so tightly his knuckles went white.

_You're not mad, John._


	3. Chapter 3

John was shaking in earnest, staring at the message with wide eyes. This was Sherlock's phone number. Texting John. Not just a text. A _reply_. Three months after he died. John couldn't stop staring, his mind blank but reeling, and it was only when the cabbie shouted that they had arrived that John pulled out of his headspace. He threw some cash at the cabbie, then stumbled out of the cab. He slowly pushed the mobile back into his pocket before making his way to the police tape across the street from Greg's flat.

Greg was standing in the kitchen of the house, talking to Donovan when he saw John enter the building. He waved her off as he moved to meet him by the stairs. He realized something was up immediately. John was physically shaking, his mouth tight in a thin line. He felt worry start to gnaw at him. "John... Is something wrong?"

It took a few extra seconds for Greg's question to break through the fog in John's head; after a delay, John looked up at the detective inspector and pulled an obviously fake smile. "N-No," he replied, his trembling voice betraying him. "N-No, everything is... is f-fine."

He cleared his throat, praying the tightness in his chest would subside. It was crushing him. 

Greg didn't need to be Sherlock to see that something was clearly wrong. He reached out and gripped John's arm, leading him over to the darkened, empty front room. "I'm not stupid, John." He stopped near the window, away from any of the other people at the crime scene. John turned to face him, but he refused to meet his gaze. "What's going on? I can tell something is bothering you."

John let out a shaky sigh, finally looking up to meet Greg's eye. John opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He slowly pulled his mobile out of his pocket, the text message still on the screen, and he just turned it to face Greg. 

_From: Sherlock  
You're not mad, John._

Greg looked down at the mobile, the realization of what he was seeing hitting him hard. "Is that?" He asked, uncertainty filling his voice. It couldn't be, though. Sherlock was dead. Molly had confirmed it, John had seen him fall. But there was a text, a response to something John had sent.

"I saw him," John began to explain, his voice slightly hoarse. "Earlier today, at the cafe under the flat we were in. It was... Greg, that man looked _just like him_. I followed him but he disappeared out the back. So I... I texted his number." He paused at Greg's sad expression. "I do it a lot, actually. I told him... j-just look at my sent texts. The ones from today."

Greg took John's mobile out of his hand, watching his face as spoke. Earnest and full of pain. He was hurting and looking out for the slightest bit of hope to grip to. He couldn't blame him. Greg couldn't imagine just what John was going through, despite the pain he had been through himself. He glanced down at the mobile, thumbing through the texts John had sent earlier in the day. _I'm going mad, aren't I?_ And then the response from someone... Sherlock? Could it really be him?

"Do you think... Could it be?" Greg shook his head, trying to understand it. Surely someone was just toying with John. But there was still that nagging if.

John sighed and slumped against the wall behind him. "I don't know, Greg. I mean, I saw him every day for two months right after he... died." John cleared his throat, taking a breath. "Each time, it was in my head. I was hallucinating, I know. But this... it was a specific reply."

Greg stared down at the screen on the mobile, the words clear as day. A response to a text. Innocuous, really. Except for the number it came from. It was a small thing, but enough to create that doubt, question the truth. What was real, what was fake?

"If it's him... Why hasn't he contacted you before? Any of us?"

John quietly shook his head. "I... don't know. If this were a case of his number going to another person... they wouldn't have said my name. They wouldn't have _known_ my name. What if he... isn't dead? What if this," John pointed at his mobile in Greg's hand, "is what's real?"

Greg was still overwhelmed by everything that the text implied. His mind was full of questions, more than Sherlock had left before he jumped. He handed John his mobile back, a tight laugh escaping his lips. "If it's real, he better have a damn good explanation for the hell he's put you through."

John swallowed down the lump that formed and he gingerly slipped the mobile back into his pocket. "I will very much look forward to the explanation, if that means he really is alive." He sighed slowly, nodding. "Now, what's this murder all about?"

Greg nodded, understanding the hope that John held. He wished he could believe that strongly. "Upstairs, bedroom. Pretty straightforward death, but there are a few other things we've found that make this... more interesting."

Greg reached out and put his hand on John's shoulder, looking into his face. "All right?"

John didn't know how to answer. Grief, hope, fear, anger, all possible conflicting emotions were at odds in his mind. He swallowed and steeled his face slightly, nodding. "I'm not quite sure at the moment, but I'm here for the case. So yes, I'm all right for this." He gave a soft smile. "Thank you."

Greg returned John's smile. "Let's go check out the crime scene, then." He led John up the stairs to the room just down the hall.

The first thing John noticed was the smell of the blood. There was a _lot_ of it pooled about the body, lying almost spread eagle on the hardwood floor. John coughed against the smell, reaching for a pair of latex gloves. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see through the window straight into a familiar looking flat.

"Greg?" John pointed to the glass. "Is that your flat?"

Greg followed John's gaze, knowing just what he'd see. It was something that had unnerved him about this scene as well. "Yeah, I was wondering if you'd catch that."

He gestured toward the corner where a gun rested. "Did you catch the sniper rifle too?

John's eyes widened at the sight of the gun, a shiver running down his spine. He turned back to look at Greg. "What the hell, Greg?"

John carefully stepped to the sniper rifle. High-powered, army grade. "Shit..."

Greg rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, weary of the truth of the situation. "My thoughts exactly." He sighed, glancing back at the body, wondering how often he had seen the man before he heard the gunshot tonight. Of course, he'd seen him here and there on the street. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it wasn't just at home. Down by the station, at various crime scenes, out at dinner. Small glimpses, nothing lasting. But enough. A chill ran through his body that he couldn't subdue.

John saw the uneasiness in Greg's eyes and his stomach flipped nervously. He turned to look through the window and his nerves grew when he saw just how _perfect_ the eyeline was from this window into Greg's living room. John shifted, sniffing the barrel of the rifle lightly. 

"Hasn't been fired lately," he noted. 

He turned to face the body and bit back a gag as he saw the body from this particular angle. The bullet hole in the victim's forehead was about the size of a quarter, but the back of his head had disintegrated. 

"Christ," John muttered, standing up and moving to Greg's side. "Looks like a hand gun, hollow point bullets. I'd say no bigger than a .44, possibly a .38. Army grade, based on the, uh... state of his head. Did you find a gun here?"

Greg nodded toward a bagged gun on the bed. "It was next to the body. I have a feeling that when we run fingerprints, we're going to find the gun belonged to the victim."

The sheer number of weapons found in the house unnerved Greg. But especially the sniper rifle. He had looked out the window, there was only one place that the man had a clear view. His window. Why him?

John sighed slowly, very concerned. "I can't see anything on the body itself that's out of the ordinary. I can check the post mortem report that Molly will type up..."

His eyes fell on the sniper rifle once more and John turned to face Greg. "How would you like to come to Baker Street for the night? I know this man is dead now, but... I'd feel more comfortable if you were with someone. Me." John let out a nervous laugh. "Besides, we could talk some more... about th-that text."

Greg looked up at John, seeing the nervous fear that drifted across his features. The same fear that was eating its way through his stomach. He couldn't have been more thankful for such an invitation than he was in that moment.

"I think I'll take you up on that offer," he said after a moment, his eyes falling back on the body on the floor, a sense of unease filling his chest. "I have to fill out some paperwork, but then I can leave. Did you want to wait for me, or should I meet you at the flat?"

John hesitated a moment, carefully eyeing the body as well. "I have nowhere I need to be right now. I'll wait with you. How's that?"

John didn't want to admit it out loud to the both of them, but the last thing he wanted to do right now was leave Greg alone. There was too much unknown swirling about them. If he were to lose Greg as well, John knew there would be no coming back from that.

"Perfect," Greg replied, starting out of the room, knowing John would follow. He made his way back down to the kitchen where he had left some paperwork resting on the counter. "This will only take a few minutes."

Twenty minutes later they were leaving the crime scene and crossing the street to Greg's flat to pick up a few things.

John stood in the middle of Greg's living room as the inspector gathered his things from his bedroom. John's senses were heightened, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled for a second time that day. John thought back to that man outside of the first crime scene, how something about his presence unnerved him as well. John slowly walked to the window, his eyes up at the window opposite, watching the coroners remove the body from the room. Something was wrong. Something was... odd.

He shook his head then turned back toward the flat, calling out, "Need any help, mate?"

Greg looked up from his dresser, pulling out a pair of trousers. "I'm almost ready."

He tossed those into a bag along with a few other essentials and made his way out to the living room, seeing John standing by the window. "Clear view, isn't it?"

"Frighteningly clear," John sighed, looking back up to the window. "Well... ready?"

Greg's gaze lingered on the window, on the house across the street filled with crime scene workers, the body bagged and coming out the front door. Where only a few hours before was likely watching his flat, waiting for an opportune moment to fire that rifle. But for what reason? He couldn't begin to understand. Almost didn't want to.

"Yeah, let's get out of here."

They caught a cab outside Greg's flat and as it sped away, John couldn't help but pull his mobile back out of his pocket. He pulled up his messages and pulled up the reply from....Sherlock. John just stared, feeling no emotion except disbelief. The world was passing him by but all John could do was hold onto that one last shred of hope in his hand.

\- - -

Sherlock stepped through the door of the flat he'd been living in for the past few months. He had just gotten back from the sniper's house, having taken him out of the picture. He took a breath, feeling the nervous energy of the last hour starting to finally dissipate. He didn't believe he would get caught but there was still the chance.

Sherlock slid off his scarf, dropping it on a table before dropping onto the sofa, coat still on. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out two mobiles. One, the familiar mobile he'd been carrying for the last few months. The other belonged to the sniper. Possibly full of evidence. Hopefully full. Probably full of cryptic messages he'd have to decipher. Lots of thinking, deducing. He would have his night full with it.

At the moment, though, he wasn't ready to lose himself to his mind palace, his thoughts were elsewhere. Turning on his mobile, the name was on the screen. _New message. From: John_. He could feel a tug in his chest at seeing the familiar name. He opened the messages and read the one John had just sent him. So Lestrade had called him to the crime scene after all. He had wondered if he would. He had hoped John would go, wondered if he would see the obvious in the scene, past the mundane. He was sure he had taught John enough to see what he saw before he had jumped. He hoped John would.

Sherlock was about to put the mobile away when he caught the message just above John's. One he had sent. He could feel his heart stop in his chest, his body frozen with fear. _You're not mad, John_. The words clear on his screen, obviously sent to John. How could he have been so stupid? The proof his friend needed of his continued existence right there. The very thing that could mean his death. Sherlock couldn't fight the panic that was filling his body. He knew he had done something very stupid. He only hoped it wouldn't be the end of John.

 _Don't pursue this, John. Please don't_. He thought to himself. Hoping that John would somehow hear them, unrealistic as it was.


	4. Chapter 4

The taxi pulled up to Baker Street several minutes later. Greg climbed out, handing the money to the driver as he did. He was away from his flat, from the sniper's den, but still he felt uneasy, like he was being followed. Watched. He wondered if he was ever going to shake that feeling.

John followed Greg out of the cab, his hand tight on the handle of his cane. He suddenly remembered how the flat looked on the inside. Almost the same as before. As if Sherlock were still alive and capable of walking back through their door any moment. 

"Um... the f-flat is a little... cluttered," he mumbled as they trekked up the stairs to the living room.

Greg stepped through the door at the top of the stairs, his eyes falling on the state of the flat. It looked almost exactly like it did when Sherlock had lived there. He could see little of John's influence on the living space, aside from a little less clutter in the kitchen. He almost expected to see Sherlock walking out of his room at any moment, glancing up in disinterest before moving back to his own thoughts.

"No worse than it's ever been," Greg said, choosing to avoid stating the obvious. He dropped his bag on the floor near the door, shrugging off his jacket.

John smiled softly, recognizing Greg's tactful reply. "My room is yours for the night," he offered, easing himself down into his chair.

"Thank you."

Greg glanced around the room once more before taking a seat in the chair opposite John's, letting out a sigh. "Well, this has been an... interesting night." He honestly didn't know how else to describe it, what else to say. Interesting was the least of it. Frightening, worrying, nerve-wracking were all apt descriptions.

John let out a soft laugh, idly playing with this mobile. "Yeah, yeah... interesting. It certainly has been." He sighed and looked back down at the text message, feeling his pulse quickly slightly. "You... you did see this, right? I mean, I'm not losing my mind...?"

Greg looked at John's face, the longing clear and present. He wanted to believe that text came from Sherlock, wanting it so much that even if it didn't, he wouldn't believe otherwise. "I saw it, John. Just as you can. The text came from his mobile."

"How?" John replied immediately. He looked over to Greg. "How the bloody hell could it have? I... I almost want to reply back to it." John sighed slowly. 

Greg shook his head, "I wish I could tell you how. It doesn't make sense, but it happened." He was still trying to figure it out, himself. If the text came from Sherlock, what did that mean? Why now? "Why don't you..." He started, pausing as he thought. "Why don't you reply? What harm could it do?"

John sighed and set his mobile down in his lap. "What would you say if I told you that... that I..." he trailed off, rubbing his face. "I've been playing the with idea of... working to clear his name. To find proof that Moriarty was real, that Brook was fake, that... Sherlock wasn't a fraud." He slowly glanced up at Greg, apprehensive of his response.

"If anyone can do it, you can," Greg said, knowing that John was the only person both determined and smart enough to uncover the truth. He paused, knowing that he was part of the reason this had all gone the way it did. He needed to redeem himself in some way, he knew. "If there's anything you need from me, just let me know. I'll get you whatever it is I can to help."

John was pleasantly surprised. He was expecting Greg to condemn the idea, to tell him to let things lie. He smiled softly. "Wow. I appreciate it, Greg. I'll, uh... I'll let you know. I've just gotta think of where to start."

Silence fell between them as each man went into their own headspace. John began idly playing with his mobile once more, racking his mind with all the possible replies he could send back. Many versions of "who are you?"s and "what are you playing at?"s ran through his head, but he found that his fingers had begun typing on their own accord. John read his message, bit his lip, and pressed "send".

_Is this my miracle, Sherlock?_

\- - -

Moran was sitting at his window when he saw the taxi pull up and to his surprise, Lestrade getting out followed by Watson. He hadn't expected to see the other man at Baker Street. Whenever the other targets moved, the snipers he had in place would let him know so he could track them. He pulled out his mobile, looking for the expected text from Jones. He didn't see it, though. The last communication he had received from him was several hours earlier. _target home._ Obviously no longer true.

Moran watched the men enter the flat and saw them settle into the living room, the lights on in the window. Where was Jones? Moran sighed. This wasn't the first time the other man had slipped up. He needed to do something about it. Moriarty would have never put up with such lax men. Moran typed out a text to Jones before setting his mobile back on the sill, his gaze focusing on the flat across the street once again.

_Where the fuck are you? Your target is here. You have ten minutes to get back to me._

\- - -

Sherlock was still on his sofa when both the mobiles in his possession buzzed with incoming messages. He glanced at both mobiles before picking up his own mobile first. On the screen, John's name was displayed. He opened the message and found a response to the message he didn't intend to send. His stomach sank, it was too much for him to hope that John would ignore it, to forget it. He was too loyal, had too much hope. This was going to complicate things considerably.

Sherlock put his mobile down and picked up the one belonging to the sniper. Basic smart phone, light wear. He carried it with him everywhere, but took care of it. The mobile wasn't locked, not worried about security, then. He opened the messages, seeing only three people he regularly messaged, one, though hadn't been in contact in several months. Obviously Moriarty. There was a message waiting from one number. _You have ten minutes to get back to me._

Sherlock quickly read through a few of the other messages on the mobile, attempting to get a feel for the way the sniper responded. Easy enough. Short, curt messages, no elaboration, punctuation or capitalization. He typed out a message quickly and sent it out. If he kept the appearance up that the sniper was still in place it may buy him more time.

_saw him with your target thought you had him_

\- - -

After seeing Greg yawn multiple times, John suggested that they call things a night. Greg had offered to stay on the couch and not kick John out of his room, but the soldier refused. He insisted, in fact. As Greg passed by John on the way to the staircase, he patted John's shoulder softly and told him goodnight. 

"Goodnight, Greg," John replied, sighing softly as he heard Greg walk up the the stairs then his bedroom door close. John carefully picked up his mobile from the coffee table and quietly padded down the hall to the bedroom on this level. 

Sherlock's bedroom.

This wasn't the first time John and spent the night in Sherlock's empty bedroom. John slept in his room for a week after he had jumped. As time passed and his grief had dulled (only a little), John went back to sleeping in his own room. It was only on the particularly bad days, after a vivid nightmare, or nights after visiting Sherlock's grave did John find himself curling up in the cool sheets of Sherlock's bed.

He stripped down to his pants and climbed into bed, sighing slowly as he curled to his side. He pulled up his text messages, seeing his last sent text to Sherlock's number. No reply. John hadn't really expected one back, but he had certainly hoped for one. He knew that something was up. There was no way John could imagine someone replying to his text the way it had been hours before _without_ Sherlock still being alive. 

John smiled softly, turned off his mobile, and closed his eyes for sleep. Before he drifted off, he whispered, "Goodnight, Sherlock."

\- - -

Sherlock sat at his laptop, watching John prepare for bed in his old room. He knew John would sleep in his room, he didn't do it often, but Sherlock could easily predict when it would happen. With the inadvertent text and John catching sight of him earlier in the day, Sherlock knew he would be there tonight, even without factoring in that he had Lestrade stay over. He watched him curl up in the bed, holding his mobile before him. The light from the screen shone on his familiar features before he turned it off.

Sherlock could see him speak before closing his eyes. He pressed his fingers to his screen beside the image of his friend. _Goodnight, John._ He closed the laptop and turned back to his mobile, looking at the texts from John. 

_Is this my miracle, Sherlock?_

Sherlock sighed, a heavy feeling in his chest. _There are no such things as miracles, John_ , he thought sadly. He slid his mobile back in his pocket and rolled over onto his side. Sleep would come in time, for now he had thinking to do.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft makes an appearance to meddle in the boys' lives.

Mycroft walked through the living room in John's flat, his eyes taking in the details of the room around him. John hadn't made any change at all to the flat since Sherlock's disappearance. Clearly sentiment at work. He walked over to the kitchen table, where he saw the details of the Richard Brook case laid out across the top. So Lestrade was right, John had been keeping himself busy as of late.

Mycroft sifted through a few pages, picking up one here and there. None of it was new to him, of course, but he still couldn't help himself from looking. It was a compulsion. As he was reading through a transcript of a questioning, he heard the unsteady footsteps of the current tenant behind him. 

"Good morning, John," Mycroft said without looking up. "I trust you slept well."

If it had been any other man John would have been startled, but as it was Mycroft, John simply walked past him without pause. 

"Did I give you a spare key and forget about it?" John muttered, pulling a mug from the cupboard to make himself some tea.

Mycroft let an amused laugh escape his lips. "Please. You know quite well that I have had access to this flat since it came into Sherlock's possession."

Mycroft didn't move from the table and the page he was reading, but he glanced sideways into the kitchen. "I'll take tea, thank you."

John let out a soft laugh through his nose, pulling down another mug. He put the kettle on then turned on his heels, walking back to Mycroft. He quietly plucked the paper from Mycroft's hand, put it back in the folder, then closed it. Throwing a soft but stern look to the elder Holmes, John went back to the kettle, now whistling, and poured their tea.

"What brings you by, Mycroft?" John asked wearily.

"Oh, a little bird told me you were looking into Sherlock's last case. Thought I'd pop in for a visit and see how you were doing with it." Mycroft smiled over at John, pulling the page back out of the report he was looking at.

"I've only just started a few days ago," John sighed, sipping his tea. "Just at the start."

Mycroft picked up his tea, dropping the page back into the file. "I believe you'll find the details from the police reports terribly lacking."

He pulled out a slim notebook out of his jacket pocket and held it up to catch John's eyes. "I may have some information you'd find valuable."

John's eyebrows raised and he walked over. "What sort of information? What are you talking about?"

What did Mycroft know? John wondered if he should show Mycroft the text message, to get his idea as to what it could mean. If anybody would know if Sherlock was really still alive, it would be his brother. The British Government himself.

Mycroft's mouth tilted into an amused smile. It was like fishing. So easy to bait. "The police believed Moriarty to be Richard Brooks. He doctored all the official files. They no longer have access to the originals."

He paged through his notebook, stopping to read an entry. "Of course, they're not me."

"How could he have doctored all the files?" John asked, looking over Mycroft's shoulder at the notebook. "I thought only you could do that." He smirked up the elder Holmes before going back to the notebook. 

"Yes, well," Mycroft started, turning his notebook away from John's eyes. "I'm not the only one with that power. It seems our Moriarty had connections even within the government. What did Sherlock call him, a spider?"

Mycroft picked up a folder from the table that wasn't there originally, handing it to John. "You're going to need this. Your spider has quite the web."

John took the folder, planning to pore over it as soon as Mycroft left. He had a pressing question on the tip of his tongue, though. A thought that weighed heavily on his mind.

"Mycroft," John sighed softly. It had taken a long time for his anger at the man for opening Sherlock's life to Moriarty to subside, but some of the distrust was still there. "If you knew something... about Sherlock. A-Anything at all. Considering what's all happened... would you tell me?" 

John looked right into Mycroft's eyes, solemn and serious.

Mycroft's gaze flicked back to his notebook, not wanting to meet John's eyes. He turned a few pages, not looking for anything except a distraction from the honesty and pain in John's gaze.

"I know a lot of things about Sherlock, John. I'm afraid you'll have to be a bit more specific when seeking information from me," he responded, stopping at a mostly blank page of the notebook and pulling out a pen.

John closed his eyes slowly. "Anything that you think I should know..."

Mycroft looked back at John. "There's nothing to tell," he replied simply.

"Course not," John whispered quietly, turning away slightly to busy his hands with his tea. He sighed. "All right. What is it you wanted to show me?"

"In that folder you'll find Moriarty's original government files, before he had them all tampered to his new alias. I trust you'll be discreet when reviewing these files." He finished writing in his notebook and closed it, tucking it back into his jacket pocket. "After all, we wouldn't want them getting into the wrong hands, now would we?"

John looked down at the folder in his hand. "No, we don't. Thank you, Mycroft. I, uh... really appreciate your help." 

He slipped his hand in his pocket, his fingers brushing across his mobile. He briefly considered showing Mycroft the text from Sherlock's number, sticking it in his face and demanding an explanation. He glanced over at Mycroft, feeling a tug of distrust pull at him. It was hard to fully trust Mycroft Holmes on a good day, but after the Moriarty fallout, John didn't really know what he could believe out of his mouth.

Mycroft nodded, picking up his umbrella and moving toward the door. "Good luck with your research," he said, pausing by the door. "Oh, and John? A bit of advice, this case is full of... magic tricks, not everything is as it seems."

Mycroft opened the door and let himself out of the flat without another word, leaving John alone with his thoughts.

John cracked open the folder, beginning to read the first few lines as Mycroft exited the flat. He had just gotten to the list of known aliases when the gravity of Mycroft's departing words finally hit him.

_It's a trick... it's all a magic trick..._

John's eyes widened and he quickly turned to look down the hall, but Mycroft was long gone. John went to the window and watched as the black car pulled away from the curb in front of Baker Street.

"Not everything is as it seems," he whispered softly, a wide smile spreading across his face.

\- - -

Sherlock was sitting in a chair in his flat, his knees pulled up to his chest as he stared out the window across the room from him. The mobile belonging to the sniper was held loosely in one hand, his mobile in the other. He was reading through the texts Mycroft and Molly had sent him recently, as John had been unusually quiet. Apparently John was working on his last case, researching Moriarty. Sherlock couldn't help the stab of pride in his chest when he thought about John picking up where he left off, revealing the truth, sharing it with the world.

He heard footsteps in the hall outside his flat, a familiar gait, one he would recognize anywhere. When the door to his flat opened and closed with no word from the intruder, he didn't bother to look up. "Hello, Mycroft."

"Hello, brother," Mycroft replied, laying his umbrella across the barren side-table. "Any updates on your... endeavor?"

Sherlock held up the mobile he wasn't using. "Lestrade's sniper has been decommissioned." He scrolled over to John's texts, reading through the last few he had sent him, refusing to look up at his brother.

"Ah. Good work, Sherlock."

Mycroft watched his younger brother carefully, saw him stare intently at the mobile in his hand. Undoubtedly reading communications he'd received from those he'd left behind. Most likely from one in particular. He sighed slowly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Dr. Watson is much more clever than you gave him credit for, you know." 

Sherlock turned off the screen of his mobile, sliding it into his pocket, still choosing not to look at his brother. He felt resentful toward him, more so than normal. He had forced Sherlock to tell him the truth about the incident at St. Bart's. Although he couldn't argue that Mycroft hadn't been helpful in his endeavors, it still annoyed him that he couldn't keep his life a secret from him.

Sherlock knew he had been to see John, he'd seen it on one of the cameras in the flat, watched some of their interaction before he turned back to the mobile he held in his hand. The sniper's mobile.

"I know he's not a complete idiot," Sherlock said, turning on the sniper's mobile.

"Mmm," Mycroft murmured, pulling a chair over to sit beside his brother. "Do please stop being petulant and look at me. Lestrade's sniper. Talk to me."

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft over the top of the mobile. "Marcus Jones. Was staying in the house across from Lestrade's flat. You've seen the police report, yes?"

He flipped through a few of the texts on the mobile, before looking back at Mycroft. "He's been in contact with two other snipers, presumably the one for Mrs. Hudson and the one for John. From the texts I can ascertain that John's sniper is the new head with Moriarty gone."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow slightly. "John must be very important to this, if the new head of the organization has him in his sights." He glanced over to Sherlock, noticing a slight purse of his lips and a downcast turn of his eyes. _Important, indeed._

"So what is your next move, Sherlock? How may I assist you?"

Sherlock avoided Mycroft's gaze, knowing that his brother, like him, could deduce much more than he was saying. He hated him for it. Hated that anyone could be as clever as he could, but especially Mycroft, his lifelong nemesis.

"The sniper said that for every one I take out three would take his place. While I hardly believe it, I don't have any way of proving that someone else won't pick up where he left off once they know their man is gone. There is a deeper network in place, which I'm certain you've already gathered. Someone in government and possibly others."

Sherlock put the mobile down and looked back at his brother. "I need your assistance with the man in the government. He's someone who would have access to records much like you would, but since I can't show my face around him, I need you to do the legwork for me."

Mycroft bristled. "I have personally interviewed every man in my department, and I highly doubt I could have missed something so obvious as a mole within my network, Sherlock." 

Sherlock cut him a sharp look and Mycroft got the message immediately. _You owe me. Much more than this._ Mycroft sighed slowly, drawing himself higher to combat the resignation he felt. 

"Yes, yes, all right. I'll... do your legwork," he replied. Sherlock nodded and went back to look at the sniper's mobile, idly touching the pocket in which his own mobile rested. "John is figuring it out. Deducing. You've taught him well, brother."

Sherlock stopped what he was doing when he heard Mycroft's words, his body still as the implications of what he said hit him. "He's going to put himself in danger."

His hand slid into his pocket absently, holding the mobile with John's texts on it, thinking about the one he hadn't meant to send. The reply. He had played a large part in John's understanding of the situation. Did Mycroft know?

"Most likely," Mycroft replied, turning in his chair to face Sherlock, "but it seems he doesn't care. I once told him that knowing you was like entering the battlefield, and I daresay Dr. Watson has missed the war." He paused, gathering all the information Sherlock was simply _radiating_ at the moment.

Sherlock had a thought, but suppressed it. It was unlike him to ask Mycroft for advice, and he'd rather not see the smug expression on his brother's face when he did. He had thought through this whole plan more thoroughly than he did most. He knew the risks and the outcomes, every detail within his grasp. Yet still a part of him wondered if he was doing the right thing. It was rubbish, really. Of course he was. He wouldn't be doing it otherwise.

Sherlock glanced up to meet Mycroft's gaze and recognized instantly the way his brother was studying him. He had seen it before, done it before. He wondered what information had he inadvertently given his brother just by not closing himself off like he usually did in his presence. This case... John. They were undoing every bit of distance he had managed to put between himself and Mycroft.

"There's nothing I can do to ensure his safety aside from working as quickly as possible," Sherlock finally said, his eyes cast back down to the sniper's mobile, away from his brother's prying gaze.

"Shall I send him toward false clues?" Mycroft offered. "To make sure he stays away?"

Sherlock thought back to the various times in the graveyard he had heard John's voice beg for a miracle, the nights he saw John curled up in his own bed, his shoulders heaving with sobs. Then to the day in the cafe, the hope and disbelief in his face when he recognized him. And finally the text on his mobile, the moment of happiness almost audible in the words. He couldn't kill that hope, it meant too much to John and because of that, too much to Sherlock. The sentiment of it all was enough for Sherlock to question his own judgement.

"No, let him be. Just... do what you can to help him, without telling him the truth. If he gets too close, let me know."

Mycroft's eyebrows went up high, recognizing something in his brother he'd never seen before. He saw the sentiment in Sherlock's eyes, but instead of chastising him (inwardly or vocally), Mycroft simply marveled at the influence John has had in Sherlock's life. 

Mycroft nodded, then stood up from his seat. "Yes, of course. Good luck with your next endeavor, Sherlock. I'll do what I can to help John, and I will not divulge the truth."

He plucked his umbrella from the side-table and walked to the door. Mycroft tossed an afterthought over his shoulder as he exited the room.

"Though... I believe he may be deducing that truth as well..."

Sherlock's gaze shot up to Mycroft as he watched him leave the flat. A dozen questions met those last words as Mycroft disappeared through the door. What did he know? How much did he know? Before he could utter a syllable, Mycroft was gone. Sherlock pulled out his mobile and looked at the screen, his mind racing. He quickly punched in a text to Mycroft.

_What did he tell you?_

After a moment, his mobile buzzed.

_Asked me to tell him anything about you I thought he need know. However, I could tell what he was thinking and asking for. Like I said, Sherlock. He's more clever than you gave him credit for._

Sherlock read the text from Mycroft, chewing on his bottom lip as he did. He quickly typed out a short reply.

_And what did you tell him?_

Soon, another reply buzzed in his hand.

_I told him there was nothing to tell. I have kept your secret, Sherlock. Now just do what you need in order to end his suffering._

Sherlock's gaze focused on the last word of the text, the meaning behind it clear. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a breath, clearing his mind. He was compromised, but at this point, he couldn't distance himself from it all, from John. He would just have to live with himself, with what he'd become. He wondered briefly if it was as bad a thing as he believed it was.

_I'm working on it. Don't forget your promises, Mycroft. I'm holding you to them._


	6. Chapter 6

Tesco was busy. Busy enough that Mrs. Hudson was blissfully unaware that she was being tailed by a short, dark haired man down each aisle of the shop. Pushing his own cart, a few items haphazardly tossed in so he could blend in, he rolled his eyes as she stopped at the produce bin for the fourth time in the past thirty minutes. The man groaned softly and pulled out his mobile, reaching out for his own means of release.

_this bint has spent half an hour choosing her fruits and vegetables. i'm close to killing her on general principle now._

Moran felt his mobile buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Avery. What now? Of all the men he had in his control since Moriarty's death, Avery was the most irritating. He rarely would send him messages with just updates or other necessary things. His texts were often filled with inane ramblings and bitching about his job. This one was no different. He sighed and typed out a response.

_I don't care if she feels up every fruit on the stand, you're going to do the job you were hired to do._

Avery, still near the produce bin, felt his mobile buzz then roll his eyes at the response. He pocketed his mobile and continued to "browse" the samplings about him, all the while cutting his eyes toward Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh for fuck's sake," he muttered, irritated. "They are fucking apples. Put them in your cart so we can go. _Christ_..."

\- - -

Moran sighed sharply as he set his mobile down beside him after communicating with Avery. If Avery was about to kill his target out of irritation, Moran was ready to blow his own man up. Of all the people he could have on his team...

He glanced over at his mobile beside him, realizing he hadn't received an update from Jones in some time. Since he saw his target with Watson a few days prior. This wasn't the plan. Regular check-ins were a requirement. Moran reached over for the mobile and began typing their code phrase.

_What is your status?_

Moran held the mobile close to his face, awaiting the answer that would determine his immediate course of action.

Sherlock was working on his laptop in his flat when he heard the sniper's mobile buzz on the table. He immediately reached out for the mobile and checked the message that came in. After checking through the message history, he had quickly discovered the code message and response they used when they thought something was off. He had been waiting for that message, wondering how soon it would be before their leader would grow suspicious about his lack of updates. 

Sherlock held the mobile before him, thinking through his next move. He could give him the code word he was looking for and things would continue as they have. But Sherlock needed more information and the easiest way would be an encounter with one of his men. Sherlock smiled, it was time to put things in motion. He quickly typed out a response that he knew would throw up alarms.

_target at home no change_

Moran immediately opened his received message and he growled.

"Fuck!"

He quickly dialed a number and pressed his mobile to his ear.

"Cooper, Jones responded negative to the fail safe. Get to his location now. Update me immediately."

\- - -

Sherlock had quickly made his way out of his flat, pulling on his coat and scarf as he hailed a cab. He knew that the new head would send someone to the house immediately after the wrong text was received. He was glad he had chosen a flat not far from Lestrade's when he arrived at the house several minutes later, with no signs of anyone in the building. He glanced around the neighborhood, catching sight of a cctv camera out of the corner of his eye as he slipped through the front door. He had thought it was turned away from him as he entered the building, but caught movement at the last moment. No time to worry about it now, he had business to attend to.

Sherlock found himself back in the front bedroom of the house, the same place he had met the last sniper. He stood along the wall by the door, waiting for the visitor he knew he'd be getting in any minute, a gun held ready in his hand.

Very soon after, a cab pulled up to the curb in front of the house and a skinny man just a touch shorter than Sherlock quickly slipped out. His hand jammed into his right pocket with his fingers around his small firearm, he rushed to the front door and rang the doorbell. When no response came, Cooper quickly unlocked the door with his free hand and carefully stepped inside.

Sherlock heard the vehicle outside, followed shortly by the doorbell. His visitor had arrived. After a brief moment, Sherlock heard him unlock the door and enter the house. His pulse was racing with anticipation while he heard the man work his way through the house. Surely he noticed something was awry by now. The police weren't exactly clean when they were processing the crime scene. Sherlock recognized the telltale signs of fingerprint dust on many of the surfaces of the house when he had come in earlier.

Soon enough he heard the steps protest against the weight of the man as he made his way to the next floor. Only a few more seconds and he'd be in the bedroom. Sherlock raised his gun as the door to the bedroom started to swing open, levelling the barrel with the man's head.

Cooper pushed the door into the dark room, nerves on edge. As the soft light from the hallway spilled inside, it fell across Sherlock's face in the corner. Cooper tried to pull out the gun in his pocket but froze when he heard the familiar click of a firearm no longer on safety. He groaned softly, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Son of a bitch," he sighed, slowly drawing both hands from his pockets to hold them up in surrender.

Sherlock motioned the man toward the wall and with his gun trained on him began to check his pockets. He watched him closely, pulling out a gun, followed shortly by his mobile. When he didn't find anything else he stepped back, motioning for the man to sit down in a chair. With the man settled in, Sherlock checked the other gun's magazine. Satisfied, he pocketed his gun and held the man's own gun steady on him.

He picked up the mobile and scanned through the texts on the screen. He knew that his boss would be expecting a response any minute now about the status of the sniper. Sherlock handed the mobile back to the man.

"This is how this is going to work. You're going to text your boss the predetermined okay that everything is as it should be. Don't, and I'll shoot you." He flicked off the safety for effect. "Try anything. I'll shoot you. Afterward, I'm going to ask you some questions. You're going to answer them."

"Or you'll shoot me, I take it?"

Cooper eyed the gun, admittedly scared. He hadn't been a part of the organization long, and hadn't hardened himself as much as the others in Moran's team. He slowly pulled up a text window, glancing down as he typed.

_Everything is secure. Jones is not compromised._

Cooper reached the mobile out to show Sherlock the message before pressing send. He laid the mobile and his hands in his lap, looking up to Sherlock in front of him.

"You took out Jones?"

Sherlock didn't respond, only giving a slight nod. "He wasn't careful."

He reached over and took the mobile from the man's lap and pocketed it. "The name of your boss, what is it?"

Cooper may have been new, but he wasn't stupid. He cut his eyes up to the man in front of him and shook his head, remaining silent.

Sherlock nodded. He didn't expect an answer, though he had hoped. Obviously this man was more loyal than he had given him credit. Sherlock took a step to the side, his eyes trained on the man, gun aimed at his head, ready to fire if necessary. "Right, not so easily swayed. I understand. If you won't tell me that, then what will you tell me?"

"If I tell you anything... I'm dead." Cooper hardened his expression, staring daggers at Sherlock.

"If you don't tell me anything, you're dead," Sherlock said simply, pacing in front of the man. "Let's start smaller, then."

He paused, facing the man once more, the gun again trained on him. "There's a sniper on Mrs. Hudson. What's his location?"

Cooper stared at the end of the barrel, a mere two feet from his face. He gulped nervously. "He's... her n-new employee. At the shop."

Sherlock nodded, "Very good." He glanced over the man's shoulder, out the window, the street empty below, before turning back to the man. "And his name?"

Cooper sighed slowly. "Avery."

He cut his eyes back up to Sherlock's, narrowing them a touch. "You don't know who you're dealing with. You won't save him. Your doctor. No matter what happens to the rest of us, he won't let Watson live." 

Sherlock raised the gun like he was going to strike the man, but stopped at the peak. Threatening. "What do you know?" He asked, his voice urgent, dangerous.

Cooper flinched just slightly but remained cold. "There are fail safes in place. If something happens to us, Mor--" Cooper caught himself, feeling a rush of cold dread at his near slip. "He will kill him. Shoot him while he's crying in your bed. John Watson is a dead man walking."

Sherlock couldn't hold back the anger that surged through him, bringing the gun down across his jaw. He wanted to hurt him, but wanted him conscious. He'd finish the job soon enough. 

He stepped back, gun trained on the man once more, watching him recover from the blow, the hatred clear in his gaze. "The rest of his name, what is it?"

Cooper cried out when he was struck, his head snapping to the side. The bone didn't break, but it certainly hurt like hell. He cupped his throbbing jaw, panted hard against the pain, and flicked his eyes up, matching the angry flame in Sherlock's. 

"No."

Sherlock raised the gun once more and brought it down on the other side of his jaw. He was through playing, he wanted his answer. 

"Wrong answer," he said, once more training the gun on the man's head.

Cooper shouted again, feeling bile at the back of his throat. His head fell forward in his extreme daze, and he coughed out the blood pooling in his mouth. 

"God... M-... M-Moran... Moran..." he groaned, his eyes slipping closed.

Sherlock watched the man fall forward, nearly passing out as he spoke the name he needed. Moran. He had heard it before. Now he knew who he was dealing with.

Sherlock didn't say another word to the man. He could still feel the anger at his earlier words pulsing through his body. The threats against John clear and fresh. He pulled the trigger, watching his body slump to the floor, and dropped the gun beside him.

Following the same path out of the house he took the other night, he disappeared out the back door and down the street, quickly distancing himself from the crime scene. Once far enough away, he hailed a cab where he could comfortably study the new mobile in his collection en route to his flat. John was in danger, more than he had thought. He needed to work more quickly, get to the center of the web sooner than later.


	7. Chapter 7

Unaware of the violence that took place across town, John sat diligently at his desk amidst vast amounts of paper scattered about it. Mycroft's file had been incredibly detailed, John had read it about five times before he was really able to start comprehending it. He found buried in the pile a list of Moriarty's known accomplices, and had begun cross-referencing them to the past cases that Lestrade had sent over a few days before.

Most of the names matched. However, there were a dozen or so that were still unaccounted for. John began hand-writing a separate list of these names for further investigation when his mobile went off in the seat of the chair beside him.

Without checking the name, John answered and pressed the mobile to his ear. "Hello?"

"You're not going to believe this," Greg said, staring at the house across from his flat, the crime scene investigators moving in and out of the building as they worked. "Another murder, in the same damn house."

John sat straight up in his chair. "You're not serious. Was it like the last one, was he looking for you?"

Greg shook his head before realizing John couldn't see him. "It was different, no sniper rifle, for one. He might have been following up on the other man, though. Someone roughed him up a bit, first, before shooting him. Even so, the similarities between the two murders are enough for us to believe it's the same man."

"Jesus..." John whispered in disbelief. "In the same bloody house?" He leaned back in his chair, his eyes falling on his list of unaccounted-for names. "Want me to come down there again?"

Greg eyed the house once more, the feeling of unease growing steadily in his gut. "Wouldn't hurt. If you're free, that is."

"Yeah, yeah," John replied quickly, already reaching for his cane. He was finding his limp was not as bad of late, but he still needed the extra help his cane provided. "I'll be right down."

John quickly left Baker Street and hailed a cab at the sidewalk, telling the cabbie the address. As the car sped off into traffic, John's mind was turning. Two similar murders in the same house in less than a week? John pulled his mobile from his pocket, sighing softly. He hadn't texted Sherlock's number since that first crime scene. The time he got a reply. John began to type quickly as the car reached Greg's home.

_You'd like this one, Sherlock. Two murders in the same house by the same person in a week. Bold, killing two men across from a detective inspector, isn't it?_

John sent it as the cab pulled to a stop. He paid the cabbie then slipped from the car. He stopped and pulled up another text as an afterthought.

_If I'm not going mad... then I hope you're okay._

John pocketed his mobile and headed straight for Greg, who was waiting for him at the front door.

Greg nodded a hello at John as he climbed out of the cab, moving up the walk to the house. He watched John move, the look on his face. Something had changed in him over the last couple weeks, whether it was the work he was doing on Sherlock's old case or the hope he had gained from the text, Greg wasn't certain. Regardless of the reason, it was good seeing some of the old John back.

As John reached him, he spoke, "Victim's in the front bedroom, just like the last one."

"This is too weird, mate," John said with a soft, stunned laugh as they entered the house. 

John walked into the front bedroom and his eyes widened at the sight of the body. It was crumpled on the floor, a small hole in the man's forehead and a gap the size of a baseball out of the back. John pulled on a pair of latex gloves and knelt beside the body. 

"Same caliber bullet as the last, judging by the entry wound," John remarked. He looked up at the blood and gray matter splatter on the back wall. "He was sitting in the chair when he was shot and fell over. He wasn't tied to the chair, there's nothing on his wrists..."

John spied the nasty bruising at the man's jaw and raised an eyebrow up at Greg. "You weren't kidding. He _was_ roughed up..."

"It seems like he pissed someone off," Greg said, watching John examine the body. He had already been through several times already, taking in the crime scene. This time he wasn't the one who had heard the gunshots, having been at Scotland Yard. One of his neighbors had called it in and since it was his neighborhood, Greg had made it his priority to be there. "We picked up his gun, it was left beside the body. It was the same model as the gun from the other murder. I'm certain he was killed with his own weapon, just like the last victim."

John stood up, weight firmly planted on both feet. His cane still laid on the floor. He turned to Greg, shaking his head slowly. 

"What the hell is going on? This is... this is... What is this?"

Greg recognized the confusion in John's features, it was the same confusion that ran through his mind. "I wish I could tell you," he said, looking around the now familiar room. The first murder had left a feeling of unease regarding his neighborhood. This second one, left him feeling actually afraid. Who were these men? Who was killing them? And what did they have to do with him?

Greg sighed, running a nervous hand through his hair. "I've got more questions than answers at this point. Every fact and clue we find gives us about a dozen more problems to solve." Greg glanced out the window, his eyes falling on his own across the street. "Right now I'd love to have _him_ back just so we could have an idea of what the hell is going on."

John suddenly smiled. A genuine smile for the first time in months. He let out a soft laugh through his nose.

"He'd call us idiots then tell us everything within five minutes," he replied, smiling up at Greg. He then softened a bit. "You're welcome to stay at Baker Street again. Door's always open."

Greg returned John's smile, the warmth in his features a welcome change from the sadness that he often saw. "I was hoping you'd offer," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I'm feeling less than fond of this neighborhood at the moment."

He moved away from the window and toward the door of the bedroom. "We have some cctv footage from a camera we placed outside we can review tonight, if you'd like to help."

"Oh, brilliant," John replied, reaching down to pick up his cane before following Greg out to the street. "Listen, will you be all right? If we're having another sleepover..." John threw a playful smile, "then I should probably clean up some. The case has spread across the whole flat. Come by when you're done? Mrs. Hudson will let you in."

Greg nodded, walking John over to a waiting cab, "I'll probably be by in another hour, two at most."

\- - -

It was closer to three hours later when Greg was finally able to get away from the crime scene and to Baker Street. He arrived with his things and a laptop containing the cctv footage he promised John. Mrs. Hudson answered the door promptly when he knocked, inviting him in with a warm hand on his arm.

"John said you had another murder on your street," she mentioned as she closed the door behind Greg.

"Yeah, second one in as many weeks. Same house and everything." Greg started toward the stairs, stopping before climbing. He caught the fleeting glimpse of sadness in Mrs. Hudson's face when he turned to face her.

"Sherlock would have liked a case like this," she said, her eyes glancing up the stairs to the flat where he used to live. She took a breath and turned back to Greg, a smile forming on her lips. "Well, you go on up then, John's waiting for you."

Greg thanked her and made his way up the stairs to John's flat, calling out John's name as he opened the door at the top.

"Come on up!" John called back, drying the last of the dishes in the sink. He soon walked back out, seeing Greg setting his stuff down on the floor by the far wall. 

John walked over to the table where he once had Sherlock's last case strew all over it. Papers were now neatly stacked, the now completed list of names resting right on top. John intended to catch Greg up on his progress so far.

"Everything work out all right at the scene?"

"Well enough," Greg said walking to the table to take a look at what he had accomplished so far. "You've been busy."

John smiled softly and shrugged a shoulder. "I've had the time, as of late. Come in, come sit. Want anything to drink?"

"Sure, whatever you have is fine." Greg took a seat at the table, sifting through the various pages and files on the table. He noticed the one on Moriarty, not the tampered one he had given John. He didn't have to guess where John had gotten it. He picked up the file and started flipping through the pages while John came back with a drink.

John handed Greg a mug of coffee, watching him scan over the file. "Mycroft lent that to me. It's been pretty helpful." He reached over and pulled out the list of known associates he'd poured over earlier, handing it to Greg. 

"Those cases you sent over? Most of the people on this list were the ones responsible. There are some I haven't been able to find yet, but... I feel like I'm making _some_ progress."

Greg took the list from John's hand and read through the names, immediately recognizing one of them. "Marcus Jones," he said, surprise clear in his voice, his mind racing. What did it mean that the sniper across from his flat was one of the men involved with Moriarty?

"Hmm?" John furrowed his brows and scanned the paper for his name. "Who is Marcus Jones? Do you know him?"

Greg glanced over at John, realizing that he hadn't known the name of the sniper, having just helped with the start of the case. "He was the sniper in the house, the first victim."

John's eyes widened and snapped up to Greg. "Oh, god. Really?" He looked back at the paper, staring at the name. "He... worked for Moriarty. He lived across the street from you and he worked for Moriarty." 

Greg felt that nervous fear rise in the pit of his stomach when John confirmed what he had read. "Do you think..." He said, his voice trailing off, not sure he wanted to know. He took a breath and started again, "do you think Moriarty had set him on me?"

John was quiet for a long moment, his stomach rolling. He gave a quick, nervous glance out of the window over the street before looking up to his friend. 

"Do you think there's someone on each of us?"

Greg followed John's gaze to his window with the view of the street. Much like his own. Was there a sniper for him in one of the buildings across the street? "It's possible," he finally said after several moments. "Why would he target me? Us?"

A sudden flashback struck John. 

_I will burn you. I will burn... the heart... out of you._

"Because... because we were close to Sherlock?" 

"But if Sherlock is..." Greg paused, thinking about the next words. Was Sherlock really dead? The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that he may have fooled them all. If he only had some solid proof. "If he's supposed to be dead, why would they still target us?"

"I don't know," John said softly. "I... I don't know, Greg." A thought occurred to him and John quickly looked back to the list of names. "The second man in the house. Do we know his name yet?"

"He wasn't carrying any ID and they were running his prints when I left. I'm sure we'll have a name by tomorrow." He glanced down the list again, seeing if he recognized any of the names. "I have a feeling that his name may appear on this list, though."

He put the list down and ran his hand over his face. "If there is a sniper on each of us, do you think anyone else would have someone on them?"

John sighed slowly, thinking hard. His eyes widened as a familiar face popped into his mind. 

"Mrs. Hudson? Moriarty has sent men here before. He's been here himself. They could know about her."

"If there's someone on us, then it's likely they're on her, too." Greg dropped the list on the table and picked up his coffee, taking a long drink, a thought coming to mind. "They must have been tailing us for a while now, possibly since..." he trailed off, not wanting to say it, knowing John knew just what he meant. "I mean, it must be a good sign that nobody has made an attempt on our lives, right?"

John shook his head, pressing his hand to his mouth as his mind ran out of control. Was this really happening? Had there really been an assassin trained to each of them the past three months? John's eyes went to the window and his stomach rolled. He moved to the window in three strides, drawing the curtains closed. He sighed then gasped softly, turning on his heels back to Greg.

"If these men were working for Moriarty and his network... Who is killing them?"

Greg's eyes widened as he met John's, an idea hitting him hard and fast. "You don't think..."

John's breath quickened, his heart pounding. The text, the reply... There's no way...

"Y-You... you said you had cctv tape... of the last murder...?"

Greg nodded, glancing back at the laptop he brought with the footage on it. He moved to pick up the laptop and brought it back to the table, booting it up. "I'm sure we won't find anything, anyway..." He said, trying not to get John's - or his - hopes up.

As soon as he was able to, he pulled up the video and began to play it. "The murder happened within a thirty minute window that we know of," he started the video about half an hour before that.

John was scared out of his mind. He was trembling as Greg pulled up the footage, gnawing the inside of his cheek. As depressed as John had ever been, he was that full of hope. He couldn't quell it, couldn't hold it back. It consumed him.

His eyes locked onto the laptop screen as video began to play, watching cars pass by the front door of the house. A cab slowed in front of the house and John inhaled sharply, his heart in his throat. He saw a dark figure step out and his vision swam.

Dark curls. Flowing coat. 

Holding his breath, John grabbed Greg's forearm and prayed the figure would turn. That John could see his face. The figure reached the door and just before slipping inside, he turned to the camera, his face clearly visible. John nearly blacked out, his hand now a vice gripping Greg's arm so hard bruises were bound to form. 

There was no more doubt. It was Sherlock. 

Greg was just as riveted to the screen as John, his own hopes and fears playing through his mind as he waited for something to appear on the screen. And then he saw him, catching the familiar figure the same moment John did. He was biting his lip as he watched the man stop at the door, turning to face the camera. He didn't even realize he was hoping for it to be Sherlock until he saw his face, recognizing it immediately. 

He watched him walk through the door and then several minutes of nothing before he felt the grip John had on his arm. "John, you're _hurting_ me," he said, prying John's fingers from his arm. Greg rubbed his arm, turning back to the laptop. It was Sherlock. He was alive. There was no other explanation. He quickly rewound the video and watched again as Sherlock climbed out of the cab and walked into the house, his eyes meeting the camera only momentarily before disappearing through the door.

_Well, this changes everything._


	8. Chapter 8

Sitting at his private desk at the Diogenes Club, Mycroft clicked away at his computer. He had heard of another 'murder' at the same site Sherlock had taken out his first target, and he was now tapping into the surveillance camera he knew Lestrade's men had installed at the scene. 

Mycroft pulled up the video and as he watched it roll, he felt his blood pressure rise. The moment where he could distinctly see his "dead" younger brother's face on the screen in front of him sent a flare of anger through him. Immediately he pulled out his mobile and punched a text to Sherlock's.

_For someone who claims to be a genius, you are incredibly and irresponsibly stupid._

Sherlock was on his way across town, preparing himself to handle Avery, the man on Mrs. Hudson, when he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out, hoping for another text from John. His thoughts were still drifting back to the last one he had received from John earlier in the day, when he was called to his crime scene. The text was, disappointingly, from Mycroft. Sherlock sighed and texted a reply.

_What are on about now, Mycroft?_

Mycroft typed very quickly and soon a reply buzzed in Sherlock's hand.

 _You were SEEN, Sherlock! There was a camera at the house and you were seen going in!_

Sherlock immediately remembered the cctv camera he had seen before entering the house and felt his stomach drop. _John_.

 _It couldn't have been a clear shot_.

Soon another reply came in.

_It is. A blind man could see it was you! How could you be that irresponsible?_

Sherlock looked up from his mobile, out the window of the cab. He had been careless and now his friends were in danger because of his stupidity. His plans were going to have to move along much quicker now if he was going to be able to save them. Sherlock typed out a quick reply to Mycroft.

_Can you have the video taken care of?_

Mycroft sighed and replied.

_I can do my best, brother, but by now the police will most likely have it in their possession. And you know that Lestrade and John are working those 'murders'. If I can't fix it, you are on borrowed time until they realize the truth._

Sherlock knew that John and Lestrade most likely had their hands on the video already. He wondered what they were going to do with what they saw. He bit his lip as he typed out another response.

_I'm on my way to handle Avery. Can you tell me anything about Moran?_

Mycroft typed a reply. 

_He was Moriarty's right-hand man. So assume Moran knows as much about you as he did. I have a file I will email you. Too long to text. Be careful, Sherlock. I'll do what I can about the video or handle the fallout if I cannot stop the footage being seen._

Sherlock waited for the email to reach his mobile, when it did, he opened it and read through the information Mycroft had procured for him. Military service, good shot. Obvious, need to be a good shot to be a sniper. He'd worked with Moriarty for several years, profile stating that he's intensely loyal to his boss. Sherlock quickly read through the rest of it before he arrived at the shop where Avery was working. He had a plan to follow Avery home from work, taking care of him in his flat, barring that, the most secluded location he could find.

\- - -

Avery was wiping down the last table inside Speedy's, biting the inside of his lip. This was by far the worse assignment he'd ever had, and he once had stalked his mark through the city's sewer system. Truly, the only thing that kept him from shooting Mrs. Hudson was the legend of a Moran enraged. He'd heard tell the stories from those who witnessed their boss in such state as Avery wanted to stay far away. He quite liked all his fingers. 

"Oh, Michael, dear," Mrs. Hudson called as she stepped from the back room. "I'm closing the shop tomorrow so I won't need you until Friday."

Avery cringed at the sound of his first name but put on his good employee face and nodded. 

"All right, see you then. All right to lock up?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Yes, love. Go on now, I'll finish the rest."

Avery nodded and soon left the shop, glancing up at the now drawn curtains of 221b above him. Shrugging it off, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked down the street toward the flat Moran put him up in. 

Sherlock pulled his collar up tighter around his face, tucking his gloved hands in his pockets as he followed Avery at short distance. It was strange, being back on Baker Street, not able to go up to 221b. He focused back on Avery, he had a case to handle. He'd be able to go home soon enough.

Sherlock watched Avery stop at a building a few down from 221 and enter the front door. A few minutes later a light on the third floor came on. Front flat, third floor. He stood below the building watching Avery's shadow dance along the windows as he settled in for the night. When he knew it was time, he took one glance back to 221, Mrs. Hudson and John, before entering the building and making his way up to the flat he knew Avery to be in. 

Avery settled into his armchair in his living room, meticulously cleaning his firearm as a means of relaxation. He glanced over at his laptop screen, monitoring the camera he had installed in Mrs. Hudson's flat. She had just gotten home, locking up behind her. 

Avery kept the room silent. No radio, no telly, nothing to attract attention or disturb his senses. He may have hated his current job, but he was damn good at what he did. 

So when he heard a very faint creak outside in the hall, Avery slid a magazine into his gun. 

Sherlock pulled his gun from his pocket, holding it close to his body. He had done some research on Avery before making his way across town. He knew that he was ex-military and skilled in firearms and hand-to-hand combat. This information gave Sherlock reason to be wary of this encounter. He knew it wasn't going to be as easy as it was with the last two men.

Sherlock slid the gun back in his pocket as he came up on Avery's door, his hand still on the grip. He took a minute to prepare himself, a plan falling into place. Tears began to sting at his eyes, his breath in short gasps. He reached out and started knocking on Avery's door, the sound frantic and panicked. "Help, please! Is anyone home?" He called out, his voice sounding scared and afraid.

Avery snapped his head up at the pound on his door. When he heard the voice cry out, he groaned softly then pushed himself out of his chair. He walked toward the door, pausing about ten feet away. He still held his pistol, but had it resting on the table beside him.

"What do you want?" he called out sharply.

Sherlock took a deep breath, "Please, my friend... She's hurt." He pressed his free hand to the door, waiting for Avery to open it. "Please, can you help us?"

Avery rolled his eyes, shouting back. "Find another door. I can't help you."

Sherlock forced more tears out, banging his hand against the door, insistent. "Please!" He begged, "I've tried, nobody else is home. She needs help. Please..."

"Oh for fuck's sake," Avery muttered to himself, dropping his gun on the table then striding to the door. He wrenched it open, shouting, "Piss off--!"

Sherlock was waiting for Avery to open the door, expecting it. When it flew open, he smiled at the sniper, "Hello!" He said brightly, his gun aimed at his head as he pushed him into his flat.

"Fuck!"

Avery scrambled backward in surprise but soon collected himself, quickly knocking Sherlock's arm up. Avery grabbed his wrist and wrenched it sideways, trying to dislodge the gun.

Sherlock twisted his wrist out of Avery's grasp, managing to hold onto the gun. He threw his other arm into his elbow, knocking his arm away, before throwing his elbow into Avery's face, feeling it hit, forcing him back away from him.

Staggering back, Avery nearly tripped over his feet and he fell back against the kitchen table. He kicked out one of the chairs then kicked it hard across the floor into Sherlock's shins, reaching for his own gun on the table surface.

Sherlock tried to get out of the way of the chair, but it still hit him hard, leaving him stumbling for a moment. When he got his bearings, he saw Avery leaning across the table, reaching for his gun. Sherlock couldn't let him get his hands on it. He jumped over the chair, launching himself at Avery, bringing him to the ground in a hard hit.

"Ah!" Avery cried out as his head cracked on the hardwood floor. He struggled against Sherlock's grasp, wrenching an arm free and throwing a wild punch, connecting with Sherlock's temple. 

Sherlock blinked back the dizziness that hit him with that punch, his long fingers wrapped around Avery's neck, pressing into his throat. He looked up from Avery, his eyes falling on the man's gun just within his reach. He slid his gun into his own pocket, while Avery struggled against his hand on his throat with little effect. There wasn't any way he'd let go.

He reached out and picked up Avery's gun and held it to his temple, safety off. "I would have enjoyed talking with you, but it seems that would be in vain."

He pulled the trigger, Avery immediately stopped struggling. Dead.

The sound of the gunshot rang out in the small flat and Sherlock immediately realized that it would be heard down the street. He dropped the gun and reached into Avery's pockets, looking for his mobile. It wasn't there.

He quickly got up from the floor and started to walk through the flat, his eyes searching every surface, finally settling on the table where his laptop set. On the screen he saw video feed of Mrs. Hudson's flat, she was standing at a window, her eyes searching the street. If she saw him, Mycroft was going to be furious.

Sherlock picked up the mobile resting beside the laptop and pocketed it, quickly fleeing the flat, making his way out of the building. When he finally made it to the street, he didn't glance back to 221, despite the urge to, instead he turned and fled the opposite direction, wanting to put as much distance between him and the crime scene as possible.


	9. Chapter 9

"Oh God... Oh, my God..." 

John raked his hand through his hair, staggering away from Greg's laptop. His legs went weak and he collapsed into his armchair, his breath coming in quick pants. He was trembling in shock and nerves, his mind running a hundred miles an hour.

Sherlock was alive. John had seen it with his own eyes. Greg had too. It was him. _Sherlock was alive!_

John couldn't stop fidgeting, he was almost buzzing. His heart was pounding and he couldn't quite figure out which emotion to land on. Elation, anger, disbelief, and residual grief all mingled together to where John physically did not know what to do.

"Greg," he gasped, his hand at his mouth. "Greg, please... Tell me I'm not dreaming. Tell me that you saw him too. Please..."

Greg followed John to his chair, reaching out and resting a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. John's reaction taking him by surprise. He knew that John had been grieving, had been doing all he could to prove Sherlock wasn't a fraud, to find out the truth in his death. He knew that seeing Sherlock on the video would hit him hard, but not this hard.

Greg squeezed John's shoulder, crouching down beside him, looking into his pain-stricken face. "I saw him, John. You know I did. It was definitely him."

John's breathing slowed down and a sudden smile spread across his face. "Well, this at least explains the text..." A soft laugh bubbled from his lips. "Oh God... I'll kill him for doing this to me." John began laughing in earnest, his emotions finding their release. He smiled at Greg, shaking his head.

Greg let out the breath he was holding, seeing John was going to be okay. He had his own set of problems to work out now. If Sherlock was taking out these men and Sherlock was supposed to be dead, what was he going to do about this case? 

He got to his feet and sat down in Sherlock's chair, his head in his hands as he sorted through the events. He wondered if there was something he could do about the video? He couldn't even believe he was thinking about destroying evidence, but what was he going to do?

Suddenly, a loud crack of a gunshot echoed down Baker Street. 

John's eyes snapped to Greg's, both men standing quickly from their chairs. 

"That was close," John breathed, running to the window and peeking through the drawn curtains, seeing nothing on the dark street.

Greg's heart was racing. The gunshot was very close, much like the one he had heard on his street the night of the first murder. He was at the window with John, his eyes searching the street, looking at the windows, curtains being drawn, lights being turned on, curious faces looking into the night.

"Where do you think it came from?" He asked, still trying to figure it out himself.

"Shit... You don't think...? Mrs. Hudson?" John gasped, remembering the chilling thought of her with her own sniper. John turned, leaving his cane behind, and ran down the stairs. He sighed when he saw her standing at her window, peering out at the street.

"Mrs. Hudson, away from the window," he instructed quickly, taking her hand. "Come on, back here..."

"What was that noise, John?" she asked as he lead her into her living room and sat her on her couch. Thankfully there were no windows in the room. 

John glanced back out to her kitchen door, which Greg was already opening. "We think it was a gunshot. Stay here, please. Greg and I will be right back." He kissed her on the cheek then turned, running after Greg who was already on the sidewalk.

Greg turned back to John as he heard him behind him. "It was across the street. If I would guess that building," he said, pointing to a building people were crowded outside.

When Greg had gotten to the street, he had seen someone running away from the scene, away from them. The coat billowing behind the man looked familiar, but he couldn't be certain. He didn't want to tell John and be wrong.

John looked over quickly, not seeing anything more than the crowd, and nodded to Greg. "Come on, let's go."

Greg dialed for backup as the two of them ran down the street, weaving between curious onlookers. They had to push their way through a large group at the building door, Greg shouting at them to move out of the way. Greg moved in first, with John close behind. 

"How many floors are there? It could have happened anywhere," John panted softly as they quietly moved up the stairs.

Greg thought back for a second before replying, "Three, I think." He moved through the hall of the first floor, seeing several of the residents heads sticking out of their doors. There was only one door on the ground floor not opened. He knocked on it and the tenant answered, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Greg quickly sent him back to sleep before turning to move up to the first floor. He felt like he was losing valuable time. 

"John, check the next floor while I go through this one," he said turning down the hallway, knocking on the first door he came to.

"All right. I'll yell down the stairwell if I find anything. 

John ran up the stairs but paused as he turned onto the second floor. This wasn't right. Something told him to go up one more floor. John took the last flight of stairs two at a time, seeing a handful of residents milling about the hall. He spotted the very first door was swung in and John could see an overturned chair. He carefully looked inside and his stomach rolled as he saw a body with blood pooled around its head not 25 feet from the doorway.

"Everyone, please," he called out to those in the hallway. "This is police business. I need you all to go back inside."

As the residents did so, John ran to the stairwell and shouted, "Greg! Third floor, first flat!"

Greg heard John's voice in the stairwell and immediately left the resident he was talking to, flying up the stairs to meet John. John was waiting for him just outside the door. He walked in, seeing the man on the floor, blood pooling from a head wound. The scene was eerily familiar.

Greg quickly checked the rest of the flat, finding it empty. He noticed a laptop open on a table. He nodded toward it, turning to John, "You might want to take a look at that before the rest of the team gets here. See if there's anything of importance to you on it."

John looked over to the laptop, nodding. "Right..."

He rushed to the laptop, pulling it closer to him. He gasped when he saw the video still running on the screen - Mrs. Hudson's living room. This was her sniper. He cursed under his breath as he closed the window then began pulling up files and folders in search of anything familiar. His eyes fell on a folder marked "mission" and he immediately clicked on it. Inside there was a sub-folder that made John's eyes widen. 

_Richard Brook_

John opened the folder and inside a veritable buffet of information. Files for each sniper, a mission log, names and addresses of known contacts and locations for rendezvouses. John spotted a folder marked "Moran" and recognized the name from the list of Moriarty's unaccounted-for associates. He heard the police sirens heading down the street and he quickly began emailing files to himself, starting with Moran's and the address log. By the time back up had arrived, John had sent himself every bit of information this man had.

John closed the laptop and set it back where he found it, heading back to Greg. He looked down at the body and his eyes widened in recognition. 

"Greg, I know him."

Greg looked up from the body, "You do?" He asked, surprise clear in his voice. His eyes fell back onto the face of the man, he wouldn't have recognized him for anyone he knew or had seen prior. "Who is he?"

"Mrs. Hudson hired him a few months back for the shop," John explained. "I've seen him down there... with her..." he trailed off as something hit him. "Since a week after Sherlock left. This was her sniper. Like the first victim was yours."

Greg looked up at John, realization clear on his features. "The second victim wasn't your sniper, though, was he?"

John thought hard. "I... I don't know. Maybe..."

When the additional officers entered the flat, John stepped back to allow them room. He leaned against the far wall, his mind reeling. He had been exposed to a large amount of life-altering news within the last half hour. They were being targeted. Two of the snipers were gone, possibly three. All of them most likely taken out by Sherlock who apparently had been alive this entire time. While John was grieving for him. Somehow, in the cacophony of emotions pressing down on him, anger won out for the moment. John reached into his pocket and plucked out his mobile, pulling up a text as Donovan and Anderson milled about the body.

_I saw you. On a tape. You just killed Mrs. Hudson's sniper. You're alive. Prick._

\- - -

Sherlock climbed out of the cab, handing the driver his money before turning to his flat. He was mentally going over the case as he walked up to his flat, two snipers down, one lackey taken care of. The biggest target he had remaining was Moran, the one they had trained on John, the current leader of Moriarty's group. He wasn't sure how he was going to get to him, take him out, he only knew that he had to do it soon. If he waited too long, everything he had done would have been in vain.

He made it into his flat, locking the door behind him without even realizing how he got there, his mind was so preoccupied. It wasn't necessarily unusual for Sherlock, though. He was settling onto his sofa when he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket, pulling him out of his Mind Palace. He almost didn't check it, but curiosity got the better of him. The name of the sender appeared on the screen: John.

Sherlock read the words on the screen, his stomach feeling like it was dropping out of his body, the now familiar feeling of fear tight in his chest. If John knew he was alive, then what else did he know? There were too many variables, too much in the air for Sherlock to fully understand the complexity of the situation. He wanted to answer, to let him know the truth, but he restrained himself. He couldn't... Wouldn't tell John until after Moran was handled, only then would he know his mere presence would be his death sentence.

Sherlock sat up and opened his laptop, pulling open the email he had received from Mycroft earlier in the day. He had read through it once already, but took another few minutes to see if he had missed anything. He needed to find Moran and find him fast. John's life was at stake.

He saw the information before his mind could fully process what it was seeing. There on the last page of the document Mycroft had emailed to him was an address, clear as anything. How he hadn't noticed it earlier, he wasn't certain, but he knew it now. It looked like he would be returning to Baker Street once more that evening. He would have to wait for his earlier crime scene to be cleared of police, first. Didn't want to attract more attention than he already would.

\- - -

John had _really_ hoped Sherlock would reply. He had jammed his mobile back into his pocket but kept pulling it back out to check every few minutes, his disappointment and irritation growing each time. They had been at the crime scene for over an hour now and were slowly beginning to wind down. Anderson had taken the body out a few moments ago and John slowly pushed himself away from the wall. 

He walked over to Greg, laid a hand on his arm, and said quietly, "I'm going back to the flat. Look at what was on that laptop."

Greg nodded and John slipped out, heading down the stairs and out onto Baker Street. He soon was home, assuring Mrs. Hudson that everything was okay (he smiled as she hugged him close). He made his way up to 221b, walking right past his cane in the sitting room to his bedroom. He pulled out his laptop and his email, and soon he was downloading all the information he had emailed to himself. 

He first opened the file on Moran. The very first word on the page was "Leader" clear as day. John looked at the picture that was included and felt a thrill when he realized that he'd seen this man before. He'd seen him in the shop when John was there, and most recently, he'd seen him standing outside of the very first crime scene. The one where he saw Sherlock for the first time. Once again, a memory of Jim Moriarty flooded back to him. 

_I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you._

John sighed slowly. It became obvious to him that Moriarty meant to hurt Sherlock by destroying the only people he cared for. One sniper per person. Monitoring them. They must have not believed that Sherlock was dead.

"So what are you, Moran...?"

It hit him. Everything fell into place in that precise second and John had a fleeting thought that this is what Sherlock must feel like. Jim strapped a bomb onto John's chest to threaten Sherlock. Jim was to be the one to take out John, so _of course_ his second in command would be the one to take over the job. 

Moran was John's sniper.

John quickly pulled up the list of addresses and he gasped when he saw the address for Moran's location. 234 Baker Street. _The flat directly across the street_. John leapt up from his chair and quickly crossed the room. He pulled his pistol from the nightstand drawer, checked the magazine, tucked it in the back of his jeans, then ran out the door.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter here. <3 Moran's final showdown with Sherlock and John.

For the second time that day, Sherlock was on Baker Street. This time, he was standing before a different building, readying himself to enter a different flat. The man waiting for him there, surely knew what had happened earlier in the evening and most likely was waiting for him to arrive. It was only a matter of time.

Sherlock entered the building, his hand inside his pocket on his gun. He quickly climbed the stairs to the first floor, knowing exactly where the flat was he was seeking out. When he reached the landing, though, he didn't have time to prepare himself at all. Moran _had_ been waiting for him, his door open, the man standing just inside, a smile on his face. And from the looks of it, he was not in the mood to play. 

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," Moran said, idly picking at his thumbnail. "Nice to see that you're still with us. Your friends, however... well, maybe just one of them, may not fair that well from this happy bit of news. A certain soldier, perhaps."

He smirked and waved Sherlock inside with the pistol in his right hand. "Do come inside."

Sherlock followed Moran inside the flat, watching him shut the door behind him. He glanced quickly around the flat, taking in his surroundings. It was small, one living space, sparse furniture. Very utilitarian. He had this flat for one reason and one reason only.

"Quite the place you have here," Sherlock said idly, his eyes falling on the window that faced the street, seeing the sniper rifle placed conveniently beside it.

"It's small, yes, but functional. I can see all of Baker Street. I can see straight into 221b too. Your little pet has certainly been missing you. Haven't seen a man cry so much."

Moran slowly paced the floor, his eyes on Sherlock the entire time. This was the moment he'd been living for, ever since Jim had forged this plan over a year ago. Moran felt a small flame of anger start to burn inside him. Because of Sherlock, Jim was dead. Not only was Moran going to solve his boss's final problem, but he was going to make sure Sherlock paid.

Sherlock walked around the flat, outwardly unbothered by Moran's words. His eyes glanced out the window, seeing 221b's lights on, but empty. _Where was John?_ He turned back to Moran. "And tell me, how are _your_ men?"

Moran shrugged. "Idiots, the lot of them. They were pawns, they meant nothing. Not like you and your doctor."

Moran checked his gun, chambering a bullet. "Now, then. How do you want to go about this, Mr. Holmes? You can either try to fight, then I'll shoot you. Or you could just stand by the wall and let me kill you now, it'll be the same result either way. Though, I do hope you try to fight. I will take great pleasure in breaking you before killing you, for what you did to Moriarty."

\- - -

John reached the front door of the building across the street in a matter of minutes. He kept his breathing in check as he glanced up to see a light on the front flat on the first floor. No other lights were on. That must be the place. He silently opened the front door before he quietly made his way up the wooden staircase. He reached for his gun behind his back, drawing it out as he stepped onto the landing, heart pounding when he saw a sliver of light from under the door at the end of the hallway. John crept down the hallway, blood running cold as he took a step and the loudest creak came from the floorboards beneath him. 

\- - -

Both Moran and Sherlock looked up at the door at the same time, focused and listening for the sound they both obviously heard. Sherlock felt his heart start racing, he knew John wasn't in the flat, knew that John knew more than he should. It was only logical that John would come find him, find the sniper he would know is trained on him. _Why must you always run to the fight, John?_

With his gun still trained on Sherlock, Moran moved to the door, readying to open it to the uninvited guest outside. Sherlock watched him closely, biding his time. The moment Moran's head was turned, Sherlock pulled out his own gun and held it ready on the man before him. His mind was racing ahead, planning out the next few minutes. Confrontation. Accusations. Threats. If John was on the other side of the door, as he believed, it would only complicate things. The only thing he could do was wait for the door to be opened.

John only allowed himself a momentary flicker of panic. Almost immediately, his time in Afghanistan came back to him. Fall back to a safe location, reassess, move in again. John quickly looked back, spying a darkened alcove in the corner of the hallway behind him. He quickly and quietly crossed the hall, pressing himself flush against the wall and completely concealing himself. 

Moran opened the door, not seeing anyone outside the door, he glanced quickly down the hall, suspicion rising. He _had_ heard something outside the door and gauging by Sherlock's reaction, he had heard it too. His eyes searched the short hallway, scanning the doorways and shadowy places, not seeing anything. It didn't mean, though, that no one was out there. He let out a low breath and closed the door, turning back to Sherlock.

Sherlock watched Moran's face fill with a brief moment of surprise before he caught himself and that unnerving smile was in place once more. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I was thinking," he said, his gun trained on Moran. "Why don't we do this like we did with Cooper. He begged, you know. So worried about what you would say if he knew I'd outwitted him."

"He would have had reason," Moran replied, a sharp edge in his voice. "You saved me the trouble of killing him. I won't break like he did, so you'd be wasting your time."

Sherlock nodded, "I wouldn't expect you to. And I certainly hope you have more fight in you than Jones did." Sherlock's lips curled into a smirk, "Though he did like to talk."

Moran noticed the shadows of a bruise forming at Sherlock's temple and he smiled. "Looks like Avery put up a fight." He began to slowly pace the floor, the gun in Sherlock's hand following his every move. "Now after I kill you, how shall I dispose of your doctor, hmm? He's been shot before, so that would just bore him. I could poison him. Let him suffer for a few days before dying. What would you suggest, Sherlock? You knew him best."

Sherlock appeared to mull over Moran's question, his eyes and gun still trained on the man before him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the door opening behind Moran, a familiar form stepping into the room. He would recognize the man anywhere in any setting, in the worst lighting and with a fleeting glimpse.

"I wouldn't know," Sherlock said, watching John's progress into the room while focusing his gaze on Moran. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"

John had moved from the alcove, carefully walking down the hall. He had stood in front of the wooden door, hearing a muffled voice behind it. He had then slipped his fingers around the doorknob and waited, barely breathing. He had to find the moment. The right time to make his move. One false step and the mission would fail. Worse, Sherlock could die.

John's ears had picked up his own name spoken inside the room, a voice that wasn't Sherlock's. It must have been Moran. The voice was close, but muffled, like Moran was facing away from the door. This was it.

John silently turned the knob and stepped inside, feeling a sharp pang in his chest when his eyes fell briefly on Sherlock across the room, gun poised at Moran whose back was to John. At Sherlock's remark, John readied himself. Moran quickly turned to face him and when they locked eyes, John felt a rush of anger. Of hatred. 

Moran began to make a move for his gun, but John was quicker. In a split second, John reared back then swung as hard as he could, his fist connecting solidly with Moran's left cheek.

Sherlock watched Moran's body jerk hard to the side, nearly going down with the force of John's punch. He felt a surge of pride in John, a genuine smile forming on his face. He hadn't lost his touch. Moran's hand slipped on his gun, and Sherlock heard it clatter to the floor, out of his reach. He trained his own gun on Moran, waiting for him to come back from the hit he received.

Moran moved quickly, seeming to swoop forward to grab John by the lapels of his jacket. He swung John around, putting him between Sherlock's gun and himself before throwing a series of punches of his own. John tried his best to block, but it had been years since his hand-to-hand training and even then, he wasn't very good. An elbow caught him hard in the stomach and he grunted, nearly falling to one knee.

Sherlock watched John and Moran fight, his eyes following the action, trying to find a way in, to get to Moran. He knew John was tough, resilient, but he couldn't fight the fear that Moran would find a way to hurt him, to do more. He watched John bend over in pain, but recover and throwing a similar jab to Moran before moving to wrap an arm around Moran's neck, holding him in that position.

Sherlock's eyes followed Moran's movements, realizing that he was attempting to move closer to the gun that he had dropped to the ground. He quickly moved toward it, his eyes focused on the pair of them.

John saw where Moran was reaching, his fingertips brushing the handle of the gun, and John cinched his arm tighter around Moran's throat. He felt the vibration as Moran growled and soon John cried out as a sharp elbow slammed into his ribs. Moran then quickly snapped his head backward, catching John hard in the cheekbone. 

The momentum slammed the back of John's skull into the wall and his grip on Moran loosened as his legs buckled beneath him. John hit the floor, foggy and dazed.

Sherlock saw John fall behind Moran, his stomach lurching in fear. He couldn't get a clear shot, but he wasn't going to let Moran go. He ran at Moran, throwing a fist at the man, connecting with his jaw. His punch wasn't as powerful as John's, though, and it only gave him a moment clear before Moran fought back.

Moran came at Sherlock like a man possessed. Arms swinging and fists flying, they fought. Moran's blocked stomach punch led perfectly to a right cross to Sherlock's jaw, and he saw Sherlock's head snap hard on impact, his gun flying out of his hand. Moran knew of Sherlock's ability to fight, but he also knew that he himself was stronger. That he'd win. He always did. 

Sherlock fell back a few steps with the last hit he took from Moran. He shook off the dizziness that hit him with the punch and threw his body at Moran, his shoulder taking him hard in the gut. Moran didn't go down, though. He took the hit like it was nothing and continued his assault on Sherlock. It was all Sherlock could do to continue blocking the punches that Moran was throwing at him, his arms and body taking the beating that Moran was delivering. He kept going, though, knowing that he had to do all that he could do to take Moran out. With John out cold, he was their only hope.

The fog began to lift from John's brain as he slowly came to, hearing the terrible sounds of a beating in front of him. He blinked and saw Moran landing punch after punch, body blow after body blow, into Sherlock. John's heart dropped as he heard Sherlock cry out in pain and he reached for Moran's gun with heavy arms. 

John lifted the pistol, but his injury, the darkness of the room, and the fighting before him obstructed his vision. He couldn't get a good shot. There could be no doubt in his mind before John pulled the trigger. Suddenly, an idea struck him and he shouted as loud as he could from the floor.

"Vatican cameos!!"

Sherlock heard John's voice over the sound of Moran's heavy breathing as he struggled with him. He immediately went slack, his body hitting the ground, leaving Moran grasping at air momentarily before the sound of a gunshot tore through the room.

Sherlock felt Moran collapse on top of him, suddenly very still. He knew then that it was over. A wave of relief washed over him with the realization as he struggled to push Moran from him, his body fatigued from the fight.

The second John fired the weapon, he dropped it to the floor a his whole body sank with relief. He saw Sherlock fight against the weight of the body on top of him and John immediately began crawling to him.

"Sher... Sherlock..." John breathed, grabbing Moran's shoulder and hauling him off. He reached for Sherlock's arm, his heart swelling at the physical and tactile touch. 

Sherlock could hear John's voice, feel him pushing Moran off him. He felt a surge of warmth hearing his name, feeling John's hand on his arm. He rolled over onto his back, his breath coming in short gasps. He turned to face John, a small smile on his face. John was okay, so far as he could tell. He was alive. "Are you all right?" He asked him, feeling far from it himself. It hurt to breathe, let alone move.

John's head was pounding, his whole body ached, but none of that mattered right now because Sherlock was here. Sherlock was in front of him, smiling at him, talking to him. John let out a soft gasp and nodded slowly. 

"Yes," he whispered. "Are you?" 

The soldier left and the doctor returned. John carefully touched Sherlock's face, checking for concussion or more massive trauma. Seeing none that would require immediate, urgent care, John gently cupped Sherlock's neck - both to give it support and to give himself another firm connection to his best friend, back from the dead.

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes at the feel of John's hands on his body, checking for injuries. He knew he would find nothing more than some bruising, which was enough. When John's hand rested on his neck, he opened his eyes once more, looking back at his best friend, truly seeing him for the first time in months. It was overwhelming, but he couldn't begin to say why, the feeling was foreign to him.

"When did you figure it out?" He asked, instead, his voice was much rougher than he had thought. Had Moran hit his throat?

John couldn't help but arch an eyebrow. "You sent me a text, Sherlock. I started from there," John replied softly. He cast his eyes downward. "I've... I've wanted nothing more than to break your nose from the second I saw you in that camera feed, but considering the current circumstances..." John trailed off then looked up again, locking eyes with Sherlock. 

"Why?" John whispered.

Sherlock looked at John in confusion. Why could refer to so many things, and he knew that he probably had so many more questions. It would probably take some time to explain it all to John, if he ever could. Sherlock took a breath, clearing his head, his hand moving up to rest alongside John's on his neck.

"Why did I leave?" He asked after a moment.

John bit his lip. Suddenly, a multitude of whys flooded his mind. Yes, why did you leave? Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you let me help you? Why did you lie to me? Why did you hurt me? John swallowed those thoughts down, unconsciously hooking his thumb over the side of Sherlock's hand. 

"Y-Yes," John replied quietly.

Sherlock saw the pain and uncertainty in John's face. His emotions were always so clear, just under the surface. It hurt to look at, but Sherlock refused to look away. He was the reason for them, he needed to handle it.

"I didn't want to. Moriarty was going to kill you if I wasn't dead. I had to stay gone until his men were taken care of. Until I knew you'd be safe." Sherlock felt like he was telling John something secret, confiding in him, hoping he wouldn't turn him away for what he'd done. 

"Oh God, Sherlock," John whispered, hearing police sirens blaring in the distance but coming closer. Lestrade, of course. He'd only been just down the street. John's eyes widened slightly.

"It's Greg," he explained, feeling a gnawing in his stomach. "L... let me help you... get away." John's heart sank with the idea that Sherlock wasn't staying, that he'd be leaving him again.

Sherlock shook his head, his hand gripping John's. "I'm not going anywhere, John. You're safe now. I have no reason to hide."

John felt lighter than he had in months, feeling a smile so wide he thought it'd break his face. He squeezed Sherlock's hand and nodded. 

"Thank you." He heard the police cars pull up and heavy footfalls running up the stairs. "Can you stand?"

Sherlock nodded and John stooped down, wrapping Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and both men gingerly got to their feet. John carefully leaned his friend against the wall, making sure he was steady. He bent over and picked up their own weapons, pocketing them both before allowing his emotions took over. John leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, hugging him close. 

"I'm still bloody angry at you," John said, tears stinging his eyes. "Furious, even. May kill you myself when you're healed." He smirked up at Sherlock to soften his words. A little. 

The sudden contact from John took Sherlock by surprise, and for a moment he stiffened in response. The contact wasn't unwelcome, though, and he responded in kind, if not awkwardly, his own arms wrapping around John's smaller body. Every movement he made was another new pain he discovered, hugging John was no different, even leaning against the wall, it hurt to stand.

Sherlock could hear the footsteps of the police on the stairs, in the hall, any moment they would break in on their moment. Once they appeared, he and John both would be in for a long evening. He knew John was angry and he would have to address that. He had so much he wanted to tell John, but he knew it would have to wait. Right now he had to tell him what he needed to know for the police. "Listen, John," he said quickly, quietly, "you did this in self defense, he was going to kill me. The other murders, they can be pinned on Moran. Used their own guns, so it'd be hard to pin anyone. Moran found me, you saw him bring me here, that's why you came over."

John nodded quickly, wiping under his eyes. "Right," he whispered back just as quickly. "Greg knows, though. We figured it out. He knows it was you that killed them, but I know he'll steer it to Moran." He squeezed Sherlock's hand gently in reassurance.

He saw a grimace in Sherlock's face, knowing he must have been in so much pain. John quickly grabbed a chair and helped Sherlock ease down into it, again giving him a once over for any injuries he may have missed. Before he could ask if they needed to take him to the hospital, the front door burst open, Greg running in first followed by a half dozen more policemen. 

Sherlock looked up at everyone running into the scene, his eyes catching on Greg's first. He could see the questions in the man's gaze, but knew he had no time to ask all he wanted to know. Sherlock nodded his head to the man who lay dead on the floor. Who until just moments ago was intent on killing Sherlock and John.

Greg was the first in the flat, his eyes taking in the scene before him. John looking worse for wear, Sherlock... Sherlock was there. That was new. He looked like he had taken a beating, the shadow of many bruises on his face and neck were coming in. He was certain that if a doctor looked at him, he'd find many more under his shirt. The man who had done this to his friends lay dead on the floor, a gunshot wound in his head. He had a good idea who had taken the shot.

"John, Sherlock?" Greg asked, stopping before the two men. "Are you both okay?"

John nodded slowly, his arm around Sherlock's back to help keep him upright in the chair. He worried that Sherlock may fall over or pass out on him any minute. 

"Y-Yes," John replied, his voice a little rough. "I saw... I saw Moran take Sherlock in here. From my flat. I ran here. I should have called you, but I just ran in here. And," he looked down at Moran's body on the floor. "Well..."

Greg looked over the scene once more, taking in everything. He didn't completely believe what John had said, but only because he knew John well and knew what he'd been up to. The others at Scotland Yard shouldn't have any trouble buying this story, especially if he outwardly agreed to it. "There's an ambulance on the way to see to you two. We're going to need to sit and talk about what exactly happened once you're both checked out."

Sherlock had been sitting in silence the whole time, his gaze focused on the floor as he thought about what would happen from here. He was glad Greg was the first on the scene, it made everything easier for him, for John. Greg would take whatever story they gave him and make it work. "John's already looked me over," Sherlock said, raising his eyes to Greg. "I don't need anyone else to do so."

Greg shook his head, "You look like you were hit by a truck. For the report, we need one of our guys to look at you."

Sherlock let out a low breath, defeated. He glanced over at John, their eyes meeting. Relief still washing over him. He had done it. Moriarty's network was gone. John was alive. Everything he had gone through was worth it.

John's head still ached, but every pain he felt was cast aside as he made sure Sherlock was okay to stand. "I'll take care of him, Greg," John said. 

He wrapped Sherlock's arm back around his own shoulders and slipped his arm around Sherlock's waist. As he passed the detective inspector, John whispered where only he and Sherlock could hear, "thank you."

The walk to the stairwell was silent, save for Sherlock's soft winces. As they descended the stairs, Sherlock's pain grew with the more drastic movements, and John's heart hurt with each one. 

"Go slow... it's all right... we're almost down, Sherlock..." John kept murmuring until they reached the landing. 

A gurney was waiting for them at the base of the stairs and almost immediately Sherlock was pulled from his hold, the EMT's taking him away. John's heart lurched and his instincts kicked in, the sudden loss of Sherlock in his grasp affecting him more than he expected. He shouted and leaped forward, as if Sherlock was being taken away from him again, for good. One of the EMT's caught John around the middle and held him tight.

"Dr. Watson, it's all right," the EMT said quickly. "Stand down, John. It's okay. Stand down."

John almost instantly stilled, watching Sherlock be helped onto the gurney. "I'm his doctor, please let me go with him."

Sherlock heard John's voice, heard him shouting for him. The pain and fear was clear in his words. Sherlock couldn't handle it. He grabbed the arm of the EMT who was helping him into the ambulance. "He's going with me." He didn't ask, there was no question in Sherlock's voice that the EMT would deny him.

The man looked at Sherlock curiously for a moment before nodding at the other EMT. He let John go and within seconds, John was scrambling into the ambulance, sitting alongside Sherlock. Where he should be. Sherlock relaxed into the gurney as best he could, it hurt even to do that, his eyes on John, watching the expressions flit over his features. "I couldn't go without my doctor," he said, a small, pained, smile on his lips.

John gasped a small, soft cry, his eyes blurring with tears once more. "You did once," he replied softly as the ambulance pulled away. 

He smiled down at his friend but had to move back as the EMT's came over to work on Sherlock. John sat in the corner by the ambulance door, his eyes locked onto Sherlock's face. He was really here. This was far beyond any nightmare or hallucination. This was reality. The both of them had nearly died tonight, each of them fighting to save the other. 

John heard Sherlock's voice, but couldn't make out what he said, but soon an EMT was at his side examining him. The same one who had held him back at the scene.

"I'm all right," John tried to say, but the EMT would have nothing of it, carefully shining a light in his eyes to check for concussion.

"You hit your head pretty hard, it looks like," the EMT remarked. "We'll need to get you a bed too at Bart's. To be safe." He smiled then added, "I'll make sure you two are in the same room, all right?"

John couldn't help but smile softly. "I appreciate that."


	11. Chapter 11

Before they knew it they were at the hospital. More than an hour later, after much tedious attention from doctors and nurses and a short visit by Lestrade filled with questions that Sherlock let John mostly answer, they were settled into their shared room, blissfully alone.

Sherlock ran a finger over the IV site on his arm, pressing down the tape around it. The only sound in the room was the steady hum of the pump pushing fluids into his veins. Sherlock turned his head, looking over at John, who was resting in his bed, his eyes closed. He wasn't sleeping though, his breathing not quite the rhythmic sound of sleep he knew by heart.

"I thought they'd never leave," Sherlock said, breaking the silence.

Eyes still closed, John huffed a laugh through his nose. "Tell me about it."

John gingerly rolled to his side, facing Sherlock in the bed. His eyes fell on Sherlock and felt the painful tug he'd always felt when he was hallucinating. Like it still wasn't real, no matter what his heart and mind said otherwise. John wondered how long it'd be until that feeling went away.

"A-Any pain, still?" he asked softly.

Sherlock shook his head. "They gave me something for it. Not feeling much of anything right now."

He rolled on his side, too, facing John fully. "What about you? He hit you pretty hard."

John shrugged his shoulder, reaching up to touch the already nasty purple bruise that was forming under his left eye, where Moran's head had hit him. "My head is still hurting, I don't think the medicine has kicked in yet. I'm... I'll be fine."

John sighed shakily, both from the chill in the room and the nerves growing within him. "Sherlock... I... I'm trying to figure out from what point I need you to start explaining."

Sherlock watched John wince when his fingers brushed over the bruise forming on his face. He was hurting more than he wanted to let on. He got hurt for him. Sherlock pressed his lips together, wanting to say something, not knowing exactly what to say. Emotions were fighting for prominence in his mind, pushing reason and logic aside. He didn't like it, but couldn't shut them away like he had always been able to.

"There's a lot that happened, I understand. What have you learned on your own?" He asked, thinking that perhaps, that would be easier.

John sighed when Sherlock changed the subject. "Well after I saw you at Mortimer's that day, I thought I was going crazy again. H-Hallucinating again. But then you sent a reply to a text I sent you--" John's eyes widened as a realization hit him. "You've been getting my texts this whole time?"

Sherlock nodded, confirming John's observations. "I have."

"Shit," John sighed, nearly rolling back onto his back to avoid seeing Sherlock looking at him. John had poured so much of his own vulnerabilities and emotions into those texts, under the guise that it would never be seen. John had admitted so much...

He cleared his throat and forced himself to continue. "When I got the reply, I decided to try to clear your name. To prove that Moriarty was real. Greg had finally convinced me to get out of the flat and come work cases with him and we happened to get the ones where you killed them." He smirked a little.

"Greg gave me a bunch of old case files and Mycroft gave me the real, undoctored Moriarty file. There was a list of his known associates and almost all the cases Greg sent me were done by people on that list. I showed Greg and he recognized the name of the first sniper on the list. This was just after the second one was killed. We... I pretended to be you."

Sherlock saw the discomfort in John's face when he understood all that Sherlock had received from him. Sherlock knew that he had never intended him to see the texts, but that never stopped him from reading them. It was the only way he could stay close to John, know what was happening in his life aside from what Molly and Mycroft could tell him.

Sherlock shook his head at John's last words. "No you didn't," he said, "you've just used what I taught you."

John smiled softly. "Is that what it's like in your funny little brain all the time? It's... kind of fun."

Sherlock couldn't help the smile that formed on his lips. He had missed John, even his bad jokes. "Kind of?" He asked, amusement clear in his voice.

John began laughing, that high-pitched giggle. He soon sobered, looking back into Sherlock's eyes. "If you don't tell me anything else today... how did you fall and not die? Because... Sherlock. I saw you. I saw all the blood, didn't feel a pulse... How did you trick me?"

"Donated blood," Sherlock said simply, "and a ball under the arm hid my pulse."

The fall itself was trickier to explain. How could he tell John without letting him know of Molly's involvement? He knew he'd feel betrayed if he knew the truth. "I never fell the full height, though."

John blinked in surprise. "Sherlock... I was talking to you. Looking at you. You... I don't understand." John began to feel the crushing sadness from that day and his anger slowly came back.

Sherlock felt his chest tighten, seeing John's reaction in his face. "You didn't see it all, John. The man on the bike, vehicles, buildings blocking your line of sight."

"You died!" John suddenly cried out, almost yelling it. His chest hurt, his head hurt, everything just _hurt_. "That's all I saw, Sherlock! You died _in front of me!_ " 

John tried to keep going, to keep shouting, but his words stuck in his throat. He sighed harshly and turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. 

Sherlock bit down on his bottom lip, feeling remorse well up inside him. It was a new feeling, something he hadn't felt in regard to anyone else before. "You saw what you were intended to see," he said, sounding almost defeated. He knew that at this point, he was just dragging John through the pain that he had experienced all over again.

"Brilliant," was all John could say to that. He sighed, closing his eyes. "You should sleep, Sherlock. Let your body heal."

"You're angry," Sherlock said. Not a question, an observation. He could see John's muscles tense underneath the flimsy hospital gown, his jaw tight.

"Great deduction, of course I'm angry. Wouldn't you be? Just a little?"

Sherlock thought about it for a moment, attempting to understand where John was coming from. Still, he knew that if it was done for similar reasons to what he had done, then he wouldn't be able to stay angry, even if he were at first. "I suppose it would depend upon the circumstances and reasons behind said deception."

John closed his eyes, thinking over everything that he'd learned the last few weeks. Sherlock said he'd done what he'd done because John was in danger, and since Mrs. Hudson and Greg each had a sniper, it was very safe to assume they were part of the threat. 

John looked back over to Sherlock and was a little startled to see emotion behind his eyes. "I guess... I guess I just wish you'd told me. To let me help you. You know I'd do anything for you. Sherlock... the last thing I said to you in person was that you were a machine. I've carried that with me for months."

"I would have told you if I could. Having you with me would have been preferable," Sherlock said. 

He pulled on his IV tubing, allowing himself some slack as he sat up. He grimaced with the effort as pain shot through his limbs, but he couldn't lay down any longer. His gaze fixed on John once more, he could clearly see the disappointment. Disappointment in himself. Disappointment in him.

"I knew you didn't mean it, John," he reassured him. "You were angry. People say things they don't mean when they're angry." 

John reached forward at Sherlock's obvious pain. "Sherlock, careful..."

He sighed and slowly sat up himself, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to face Sherlock head on. 

"I missed you," John said softly, letting go of his anger a bit. "I missed you so much. I... I didn't know what to do."

Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, easing the pain away as best he could before responding. "I missed you, too," he said, opening his eyes once more to meet John's. "I wanted nothing more than to show myself, let you know that I was still here..." He paused thinking about his next words. Sentiment wasn't his area, but he knew it when he saw it. He knew that the words he wanted to say were full of it. How would that look? Would John even believe it?

"The hardest thing I had to do was to walk away from you, leave you behind. Watching you suffer like you had because of me was worse than any torture Moriarty's men could have put me through, aside from watching you die." Sherlock found himself feeling suddenly exposed, vulnerable. He glanced down at the floor, the white tile, commercial for heavy traffic, attempting to reign in his thoughts. He pressed his lips together as he followed the patterns on the tile until his eyes rested on John's bare feet, swinging over the edge of the bed, not able to reach the floor.

As Sherlock spoke, John's eyes rose to meet his. John had rarely, if ever, heard Sherlock speak with this level of sentiment and it threw him for a brief moment. Sherlock's admission sent a pang in his gut. The gravity of how much each man relied on the other was never so prevalent as in this moment in their hospital room. 

John reached over for his IV stand, pulling it over to him as he eased himself up from his bed. He gingerly shuffled across the few feet to Sherlock's bed, sitting on the edge by his hip. Their eyes met and Sherlock's gaze dropped to his lap, but John leaned down a little to make sure his friend was looking at him. 

"Sherlock," John said quietly, earnestly. "Thank you."

Sherlock shook his head, brushing off John's words. They made him feel strange, his face growing warm. "It was nothing, John. Really..."

He started fidgeting, his fingers drumming against each other. It was uncomfortable, being this open. Caring. That's what it was, wasn't it? Mycroft had told him it was dangerous. Seeing John happy, though, made the danger worth it. Oh. Sentiment again.

John smirked softly. "It wasn't just 'nothing'. You only acted like a bloody hero," he said, gently mocking a conversation they'd had long ago. "You... sacrificed yourself for the three of us. For... f-for me. I'm certainly not worth that, but I'm really... grateful that you think so much of me."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course you're worth that. And more." Sherlock said, leaning into John, bumping his shoulder to his. He still felt vulnerable with these admissions, but knowing that John would never tease him for it, hold it against him, made it easier to do.

John swallowed down a small lump in his throat, smiling as Sherlock bumped his shoulder. That was new. He reached down and gently laid his hand on Sherlock's bruising wrist. 

"I won't ask you anymore about what happened tonight," John said. "I still want to know, but when you're ready to tell me. I know you've had as rough a few months as I have, and I should have realized that before now."

Sherlock let a small smile form on his lips. "I appreciate it," he said watching John's deft fingers slide over his wrist. He turned his palm up, his eyes still on their hands.

"Whatever it is you want to know, don't be afraid to ask. I may not have an answer right away, but I promise you will receive one."

John nodded, his eyes down at his fingers as they slowly slid to the inside of his wrist. The same one John couldn't feel a pulse from three long months ago. He felt his chest tighten with emotion once more as he gently pressed his two fingers down, smiling and closing his eyes against sudden, happy tears as he felt a steady pulse beneath his fingers. John looked up to Sherlock with a wide smile. 

"Is this my miracle, Sherlock?"

Sherlock felt something tug at his chest with John's smile, seeing how it brightened his entire face. He curled his fingers up in his hand, over John's that were pressing lightly to his wrist before. 

"Do you believe it is?"

John sniffed slightly and started nodding almost immediately. A small bubble of laughter escaped him, feeling fully happy for the first time in a long, long time. 

"Yes."

Sherlock raised his gaze to meet John's fully. The joy in his voice was more than he could have hoped for.

"Then it is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it for this story. There will be a second story in this series (The Realization) we'll be uploading soon, keep an eye out for that, and thank you all for reading this fic, I hope you've enjoyed it. <3


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